\/ 


A  WILLIAMS  ANTHOLOGY 


OF    THIS    FIRST    EDITION     OF    "A 

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A  WILLIAMS  ANTHOLOGY 

a  Collection  of  ttje  t£et#e  ann 
$roge  of  ^illt'amg  College 

1798—1910 

COMPILED  BY 

EDWIN  PARTRIDGE  LEHMAN 
JULIAN  PARK 

EDITORS  OF  THE  LITERARY  MONTHLY 
1910 


WILLIAMSTOWN,  MASS. 


1910 


COPYRIGHT,  IQIO,  BY  JULIAN  PARK 


INTRODUCTION 

THE  present  work  owes  its  existence  to  a  conviction  on 
the  part  of  its  editors  that  much  material  published  by  past 
Williams  undergraduates  in  past  and  present  literary  periodi- 
cals of  the  college,  deserves  a  resurrection  from  the  threat- 
ening oblivion  of  musty  library  shelves.  That  this  convic- 
tion has  been  justified  by  the  quality  of  the  verse  and  prose 
herein  published,  the  editors  believe;  and  they  therefore 
submit  this  volume  to  the  public  without  undue  fear  as  to 
its  reception,  adding  only  the  caution  that  its  readers  re- 
member always  the  tender  age  of  the  writers  of  these  pages. 

The  purpose  of  the  editors  was  to  collect  material  which 
might  be  adjudged  to  possess  real  literary  merit;  but  in 
some  cases  in  which  the  historical  interest  attaching  to  the 
production,  either  by  reason  of  its  subject  or  by  reason  of 
the  fame  attained  in  later  years  by  its  author,  is  obvious, 
this  rule  has  been  waived.  Among  such  exceptions  may  be 
cited  that  of  the  Resolutions  addressed  to  President  Adams 
by  the  students,  and  copied  herein  from  the  pages  of  the 
Vidette.  The  matter  has  been  arranged  in  the  order  of  class 
seniority,  with  two  exceptions.  It  has  seemed  fitting  to  the 
editors  to  begin  the  work  with  that  immortal  song,  "The 
Mountains";  the  second  exception  is  that  of  the  series  of 
biographical  sketches  entitled  "Nine  Williams  Alumni," 
which  for  obvious  reasons  were  published  as  a  whole. 

The  editors  burrowed  through  all  files  of  the  college  pub- 
lications which  the  college  library  contains,  files  which  are 
reasonably  complete.  In  such  a  mass  of  material,  some 
ninety  volumes,  it  will  be  astounding  indeed  if  some  credit- 
able work  has  not  been  passed  inadvertently  over.  If  such 
a  mistake  has  occurred  it  is  at  least  pardonable.  The  editors 

1399117 


vi  INTRODUCTION 

fear  only  the  presence  of  some  unworthy  matter  in  this 
volume,  a  sin  of  commission  and  hence  vastly  more  heinous. 

In  going  over  the  works  of  their  academic  ancestors  the 
editors  have  been  struck  by  several  very  interesting  facts. 
The  literary  quality  of  the  poetry,  as  all  will  recognize,  has 
made  a  steady  advance,  until  the  last  six  years  of  the  Lit. 
have  seen  the  magazine  second  to  none,  for  verse  at  least, 
in  the  intercollegiate  press.  Button,  Westermann,  Gibson, 
Holley,  all  of  the  same  collegiate  generation  —  they  are 
names  which  are  widely  known  and  which  have  brought 
the  college  renown  of  a  nature  which,  ordinarily,  she  is  apt 
to  obtain  rather  by  athletic  than  by  intellectual  means.  It 
is  striking,  too,  to  notice  how  the  college  poetry  has  changed 
during  the  seventy  years  of  its  existence,  as  the  present  com- 
pilers have  known  it.  There  are  specimens  of  the  "poetry" 
of  the  early  days  included  herein,  which  find  a  place,  as  is 
intimated  elsewhere,  not  so  much  for  their  intrinsic  merit 
as  for  the  interest  attaching  to  them  in  other  directions; 
and  as  for  the  prose  of  the  Quarterly  and  the  Vidette,  it 
was,  indeed,  like  the  essays  of  the  college  press  to-day,  care- 
fully written  and  with  a  degree  of  that  indescribable  some- 
thing called  "  style  " ;  but  so  philosophical,  heavy,  and  devoid 
of  any  human  interest  that  we  cannot  imagine  the  average 
student  going  through  the  magazine  at  a  sitting  as  (despite 
all  reports  to  the  contrary)  is  done  with  the  college  papers 
to-day. 

An  interesting  light  on  the  alteration  in  undergraduate 
problems  that  has  gradually  come  about  is  furnished  by 
a  reading  of  Mr.  Mabie's  essay  included  herein.  At  the 
time  of  its  production  Mr.  Mabie  saw  the  need  of  a  greater 
degree  of  organization  among  the  students,  in  order  that 
the  college  might  thereby  become  more  of  a  community. 
How  directly  opposed  the  present-day  cry  is!  Student  or- 
ganization has  to-day  so  spread  and  so  wound  itself  about 


INTRODUCTION  vii 

the  very  life  of  the  college,  that  it  threatens  to  hide  the  in- 
tellectual aims  for  which  the  college  exists.  The  editors  ven- 
ture to  express  the  opinion  that,  had  Mr.  Mabie  written 
when  they  are  writing,  his  essay  would  perhaps  have  had 
a  different  tone. 

The  college  has  indeed  much  to  be  proud  of  in  its  liter- 
ture  and  journalism  —  for  it  has  been  enriched  with  names 
like  Bryant,  Prime,  Franklin  Carter,  Mabie,  Stoddard, 
Scudder,  Alden,.  Gladden,  G.  L.  Raymond,  L.  W.  Spring, 
G.  Stanley  Hall,  H.  L.  Nelson,  G.  E.  MacLean,  Cuthbert 
Hall,  Isaac  Henderson,  Bliss  Perry,  F.  J.  Mather,  Rollo 
Ogden:  many  of  them  are  represented  here;  and  we  are  glad 
for  the  college  that  their  fame  had  its  beginnings,  even  if 
often  modest,  in  our  student  publications. 

For  the  purpose  of  embodying  the  literary  history  of  the 
college  as  completely  as  possible  in  one  volume,  the  com- 
pilers have  added  an  appendix  containing  the  names  of  the 
editors  of  the  Literary  Monthly  for  the  twenty-six  years 
of  its  existence.  For  the  same  purpose,  they  quote  below  a 
chronological  sketch  of  the  various  publications,  which  ap- 
peared in  the  Gulielmensian  of  the  class  of  1908.  The  present 
editors  cannot  vouch  for  all  the  facts  there  set  forth. 

"  So  far  as  is  known,  the  earliest  periodical  published  by 
Williams  undergraduates  was  The  Adelphi,  a  bi-weekly, 
of  which  the  first  issue  appeared  August  18,  1831,  and  the 
last  June  21,  1832.  After  twelve  years  The  Williams 
Monthly  Miscellany  was  started  in  July,  1844,  and  con- 
tinued until  September,  1845.  After  another  lapse  of  several 
years,  The  Williams  Quarterly  Magazine  was  founded  in 
July,  1853,  and  continued  publication  until  June,  1872. 
Meantime,  April  13,  1867,  The  Williams  Vidette  had  been 
started,  and  in  1872,  the  older  Quarterly  was  merged  into 
it.  The  Vidette  was  published  fortnightly  until  June,  1874, 
when  it,  together  with  The  Williams  Review,  a  tri-weekly, 


viii  INTRODUCTION 

started  in  June,  1870,  was  united  to  form  the  fortnightly 
Williams  Athenaum,  the  first  issue  of  which  appeared 
October  10,  1874.  In  May,  1881,  another  fortnightly,  The 
Argo,  was  started,  which,  with  The  Athenaum,  appeared  in 
alternate  weeks  until  April,  1885,  when  the  two  gave  place 
simultaneously  to  The  Williams  Literary  Monthly  and  The 
Fortnight.  Two  years  later,  April,  1887,  The  Fortnight  was 
reorganized  into  The  Williams  Weekly.  In  1904  The  Wil- 
liams Weekly  became  The  Williams  Record. 

"Volume  I  of  the  Gulielmensian  appeared  in  the  early 
spring  of  1857." 

To  these  must  be  added  two  more,  whose  existences  have 
begun  since  the  above  was  published.  A  humorous  monthly, 
The  Purple  Cow,  first  saw  the  light  in  the  fall  of  1907  and 
has  since  prospered.  Two  volumes  have  appeared  of 
Coffee  Club  Papers,  containing  productions  read  before 
the  meetings  of  that  body.  The  first  volume  bears  the  date 
of  1909  and  the  second  of  1910.  Every  class  on  its  graduation 
publishes  its  Class  Book  and  these  sometimes  attain  a  degree 
of  literary  merit;  hence  any  review  of  the  literary  interests 
of  the  college  would  be  incomplete  without  at  least  mention 
of  them. 

And  now  the  editors  have  done  their  task.  It  has  been 
pleasant  work;  may  the  results  prove  as  pleasant  to  those 
before  whose  literary  palates  they  are  spread.  It  remains 
only  to  thank  the  alumni  for  their  loyal  financial  support 
through  the  subscription  blanks  sent  out  in  June,  and  the 
library  staff  of  the  college  for  the  generosity  with  which 
more  than  the  ordinary  facilities  of  the  library  have  been 
tendered. 

THE  EDITORS. 

Williamstown,  Massachusetts,  November  i,  IQIO. 


CONTENTS 
t 

(For  index  by  authors,  see  end  of  the  volume) 

PAGE 

THE  MOUNTAINS  Verse       i 

Washington  Gladden  '59 

ADDRESS  OF  WILLIAMS  COLLEGE  STUDENTS  TO  THE 
PRESIDENT  OF  THE  UNITED  STATES  Prose        2 

Members  of  the  Class  of  1798 

THE  SWALLOW  Verse       4 

William  Cullen  Bryant  1813 

MARTIAL,  BOOK  X:  TRANSLATION  Verse        6 

William  Cullen  Bryant  1813 

EXEGI  MONUMENTUM:  TRANSLATION  FROM  HORACE  Verse        7 
Erastus  C.  Benedict  '21 

THE  SCULPTOR  TO  ms  STATUE  Verse       8 

John  J.  Ingalls  '55 

OPPORTUNITY  Verse      n 

John  J.  Ingalls  '55, 

AUTUMN  Verse      12 

James  A.  Garfield  '56 

IN  THE  .FOREST  Verse      14 

Anon. 

CORSICA  Verse     [16 

Anon. 

LOOKING  BACKWARD  Prose      17 

Washington  Gladden  '59 
ix 


CONTENTS 


To  THE  MOUNTAINS  OF  WILLIAMSTOWN  ON  THE  IN- 
TRODUCTION OP  THE  NEW  RAILROAD 
Anon. 

THE  YELLOW  JASMINE 

Franklin  Carter  '62 

AFTER  DINNER  SPEECHES 

Franklin  Carter  '62 

THE  STUDENT  COMMUNITY 

Hamilton  Wright  Mabie  '67 

SELF-MADE  MEN:  I.  —  BILL  PRATT 
Alfred  Clark  Chapin  '69 

ATTIS 

Anon. 

COLLEGE  FRIENDSHIPS 

Charles  Cuthbert  Hall  '72 

LORRAINE — 1870 
Anon. 

IN  ANSWER 

"S." 

THE  MYSTIC 

"Troubadour" 

BALLADE  OF  THE  HAUNTED  STREAM 
Edward  G.  Benedict  '82 

INDIAN  SUMMER 

Herbert  S.  Underwood  '83 

GONDELIED 

"Lichen" 

IN  HOLLAND  BROWN 

Sanborn  Gove  Tenney  '86 

HYLAS 

Sanborn  Gove  Tenney  '86 


Verse  21 

Verse  23 

Prose  25 

Prose  30 

Prose  35 

Verse  45 

Verse  48 

Verse  50 

Verse  53 

Verse  54 

Verse  57 

Verse  59 

Verse  60 

Verse  61 

Verse  62 


CONTENTS 

THE  'CELLO 

Samuel  Abbott  '87  \ 

MILLET'S  "ANGELUS" 

Elbridge  L.  Adams  '87 

A  SUMMER  AFTERNOON  s 

Henry  D.  Wild  '88 

QUESTIONINGS 

George  L.  Richardson   '88 

ON  BRYANT'S  "  THANATOPSIS  " 

George  L.  Richardson  '88 

SUMMER  SONG 

Talcott  M.  Banks  '90 

THE  BACKWARD  LOOK 

Talcott  M.  Banks  '90 

SERENADE 

Arthur  Oliver  '93 

OLD  TRINITY 

Frederick  D.  Goodwin  '95 

Two  TRIOLETS  OF  AUTUMN 

Karl  E.  Weston  '96 

NANTUCKET 

Arthur  Ketchum  '98 

THE  GYPSY  STRAIN 

Arthur  Ketchum  '98 

THE  SONG  OF  THE  CAVALIERS 

James  B.  Corcoran  ex-'oi 

RECOMPENSE' 

Charles  P.  Parkhurst  '98 

CERVERA  AT  ANNAPOLIS 

Henry  R.  Conger  '99 


xi 

Verse  64 

Verse  65 

Prose  66 

Verse  68 

Verse  69 

Verse  70 

Verse  71 

Verse  72 

Verse  73 

Verse  75 

Verse  76 

Verse  77 

Verse  78 

Verse  80 

Verse  81 


xii  CONTENTS 

THE  ANSWER  Verse      82 

Dwight  W.  Marvin  '01 

ONE  OF  THE  PLODDERS  Story      83 

Harry  James  Smith  ^02 

THE  ENDITING  OF  LETTERS  prose      96 

Stuart  P.  Sherman  '03    - 

GREYLOCK  Verse    102 

Max  Eastman  '05 

To  SIDNEY  LANIER  Verse    103 

Max  Eastman  '05 

THE  LIFTING  OF  THE  CLOUDS  '  Story    104 

Shepard  Ashman  Morgan  '06 

THE  FROST  KING  Verse    112 

Charles  Henry  Brady  '06 

UNTIL  HE  COMETH  Dramatic  Verse    113 

George  Burwell  Button  '07 

THE  MASK  OF  ADELITA  i  Story     123 

Gerald  Mygatt  '08 

THE  AWAKENING  Verse    136 

Willard  Ansley  Gibson  '08 

THE  BROOK  RELEASED  Verse    137 

Willard  Ansley  Gibson  '08 

THE  GARDENER  Verse    139 

Willard  Ansley  Gibson  '08 

NOCTURNE  Verse    140 

Willard  Ansley  Gibson  '08 

THE  HIDDEN  FACE  Verse    142 

Bernard  Westermann  '08 

MODERN  THOUGHT  AND  MEDIEVAL  DOGMA  Verse    143 

Bernard  Westennann  '08 


CONTENTS  xiii 

THE  GOBLIN  KING  Ballad    144 

Bernard  Westermann  '08 

OUT  OF  THE  HARBOR  Verse    147 

Stanton  Budington  Leeds  ex-'o8 

SUCCESS  Verse    148 

Stanton  Budington  Leeds  ex-'o8 

ON  THE  "CHANT  D 'AMOUR"  OF  BURNE-JONES        Verse    149 
Roger  Sherman  Loomis  '09 

THE  MANY  ROADS  Verse    150 

Horace  Holley  ex-'io 

BEAUTY  Verse    151 

Horace  Holley  ex-'io 

PREFERMENT  AND  THE  FOOL  Allegory    152 

Horace  Holley  ex-'io 

THE  IMMIGRANTS  -  -  Verse    156 

-   Horace  Holley  ex-'io 

PROPHECY  Verse    157 

Horace  Holley  ex-'io 

ASHES  OF  DREAMS  Story    158 

Philo  Clarke  Calhoun  '10 

THE  GOOD  GREY  POET  Verse    166 

Edwin  Partridge  Lehman  '10 

A  MINOR  POET  TO  HIMSELF  Verse    167 

Edwin  Partridge  Lehman  '10 

HEARTS  AND  TARTS:  AN  OLD  TALE  RETOLD  Story     168 

Durr  Friedley  ex-'io 

To  KEATS  Verse    175 

Julian  Park  '10 

MORTAL  VERSE  Prose    176 

William  Hutcheson  Windom  'u 

IN  THE  DONJON  KEEP  Story     186 

Gilbert  W.  Gabriel  '12 


xiv  CONTENTS 

NINE  WILLIAMS  ALUMNI 

I.  JOHN  BASCOM  197 

John  Adams  Lowe  '06 

II.  HENRY  MILLS  ALDEN  ,  198 

Leverett  W.  Spring  '62 

III.  WASHINGTON  GLADDEN  201 

Stephen  T.  Livingston  '87 

IV.  FRANKLIN  CARTER  202 

Henry  D.  Wild  '88 

V.  HAMILTON  WRIGHT  MABIE  204 

William  M.  Grosvenor  '85 

VI.  HENRY  LOOMIS  NELSON  205 

Julian  Park  '10 

VII.  HARRY  PRATT  JUDSON  207 

George  E.  MacLean  '71 

VIII.  CHARLES  CUTHBERT  HALL  208 

Solomon  Bulkley  Griffin  '72^ 

IX.  BLISS  PERRY  210 

Carroll  Lewis  Maxcy  '87 

FROM  THE  DEPARTMENT  OF   THE  LITERARY 
MONTHLY  ENTITLED   "SUGGESTIONS" 

OVER  THE  HILLS  213 

G.  B.  D.  '07 

A  NEW  LIFE  IN  READING  215 

J.  O.  S.  E.  '12 

APPENDIX  "217 

A  List  of  the  Editors  of  the  Literary  Monthly, 
Volumes  I  to  XXV. 

INDEX   BY  AUTHORS  221 


A  WILLIAMS  ANTHOLOGY 

THE  MOUNTAINS 

WASHINGTON  GLADDEN  '59 

O,  PROUDLY  rise  the  monarchs  of  our  mountain  land, 

With  their  kingly  forest  robes,  to  the  sky, 
Where  Alma  Mater  dwelleth  with  her  chosen  band, 

Where  the  peaceful  river  floweth  gently  by. 

Chorus. 

The  mountains!  the  mountains!  we  greet  them  with  a  song! 
Whose  echoes,  rebounding  their  woodland  heights  along, 
Shall  mingle  with  anthems  that  winds  and  fountains  sing, 
Till  hill  and  valley  gaily,  gaily  ring. 

The  snows  of  winter  crown  them  with  a  crystal  crown, 
And  the  silver  clouds  of  summer  round  them  cling; 

The  autumn's  scarlet  mantle  flows  in  richness  down; 
And  they  revel  in  the  garniture  of  spring.  Chorus. 

O,  mightily  they  battle  with  the  storm-king's  pow'r; 

And,  conquerors,  shall  triumph  here  for  aye; 
Yet  quietly  their  shadows  fall  at  evening  hour, 

While  the  gentle  breezes  round  them  softly  play.  Chorus. 

Beneath  their  peaceful  shadows  may  old  Williams  stand, 
Till  suns  and  mountains  never  more  shall  be, 

The  glory  and  the  honor  of  our  mountain  land, 
And  the  dwelling  of  the  gallant  and  the  free.        Chorus. 
Quarterly,  1859. 

I 


ADDRESS  OF  THE  STUDENTS  OF 

WILLIAMS  COLLEGE  TO  THE 

PRESIDENT  OF  THE 

UNITED  STATES 

From  the  Hampshire  Gazette,  Northampton,  Mass.,  July  25, 1798 

SIR,  —  Though  members  of  an  infant  Institution  and  of 
little  comparative  weight  in  the  scale  of  the  Union,  we  feel 
for  the  interest  of  our  country.  It  becomes  every  patriotic 
youth  in  whose  breast  there  yet  remains  a  single  principle 
of  honour,  to  come  forward  calmly,  boldly,  and  rationally 
to  defend  his  country.  When  we  behold,  Sir,  a  great  and 
powerful  nation  exerting  all  its  energy  to  undermine  the 
vast  fabrics  of  Religion  and  Government,  when  we  behold 
them  inculcating  the  disbelief  of  a  Deity,  of  future  rewards 
and  punishments;  when  we  behold  them  discarding  every 
moral  principle  and  dissolving  every  tie  which  connects 
men  together  in  Society,  which  sweetens  life  and  renders 
it  worthy  enjoying;  when  we  behold  them  brutalizing  man 
that  they  may  govern  him,  —  as  friends  to  Humanity,  as 
sharers  in  the  happiness  of  our  fellow-men,  as  Citizens  of  the 
world,  our  feelings  are  deeply  affected.  We  commiserate 
the  fate  of  our  European  Brethren;  we  weep  over  the  awful 
calamities  of  anarchy  and  atheism. 

But  when  we  behold  this  Nation,  not  contented  with  its  vast 
European  dominions,  but  endeavouring  to  extend  its  Colos- 
sean  empire  across  the  Atlantic,  every  passion  is  roused;  our 
souls  are  fired  with  indignation.  We  see  that  their  object 
is  universal  domination;  we  see  that  nothing  less  than  the 
whole  world,  nothing  less  than  the  universal  degradation 


ADDRESS  OF  THE  STUDENTS  3 

of  man,  will  satisfy  these  merciless  destroyers.  But  be  as- 
sured, Sir,  we  will  oppose  them  with  all  our  youthful  energy 
and  risk  our  lives  in  defence  of  our  country. 

Untaught  in  the  school  of  adulation,  or  the  courts  of 
sycophants,  we  speak  forth  the  pure  sentiments  of  Inde- 
pendence. We  give  you  our  warmest  approbation.  We  be- 
hold with  true  patriotic  pride  the  dignified  conduct  of  our 
Chief  Magistrate  at  this  alarming  crisis.  We  are  highly 
pleased  with  the  moderation,  candor,  and  firmness  which 
have  uniformly  characterized  your  administration.  Though 
measures  decisive  and  energetic  will  ever  meet  with  cen- 
sure from  the  unprincipled,  the  disaffected,  and  the  factious, 
yet  virtue  must  eternally  triumph.  It  is  this  alone  that  can 
stand  the  test  of  calumny;  and  you  have  this  consolation, 
that  the  disapprobation  of  the  wicked  is  solid  praise. 

At  this  eventful  period  our  eyes  are  fixed  upon  you,  Sir, 
as  our  political  Father,  and  under  Providence  we  rely  on 
your  wisdom  and  patriotism,  with  the  co-operation  of  our 
national  Council,  to  perpetuate  our  prosperity;  and  we 
solemnly  engage,  that,  while  our  Government  is  thus  purely 
and  virtuously  administered,  we  will  give  it  our  whole 
Support. 

These,  Sir,  are  the  unanimous  sentiments  of  the  Mem- 
bers of  Williams  College,  who,  though  convinced  of  the 
evils  of  War,  yet  despise  peace  when  put  into  competition 
with  National  Freedom  and  Sovereignty. 

Signed  by  a  Committee  in  behalf  of  one  hundred  and 
thirty  Students  of  Williams  College  — 

DAVID  L.  PERRY. 
SAMUEL  COWLS. 
SOLOMON  STRONG. 
SILAS  HUBBELL. 

Committee. 
WILLIAMS  COLLEGE,  June  19,  1798. 


THE  SWALLOW 

From  the  Italian  of  T.  Grossi  by 
WILLIAM  CULLEN  BRYANT  1813 

SWALLOW  from  beyond  the  sea ! 

That,  with  every  dawning  day, 
Sitting  on  the  balcony 

Utterest  that  plaintive  lay! 
What  is  it  that  thou  tellest  me, 

Swallow  from  beyond  the  sea? 

Haply  thou,  for  him  who  went 
From  thee  and  forgot  his  mate, 

Dost  lament  to  my  lament, 
Widowed,  lonely,  desolate. 

Ever  then,  lament  with  me, 
Swallow  from  beyond  the  sea ! 

Happier  yet  art  thou  than  I,  — 
Thee  thy  trusty  wings  may  bear, 

Over  lake  and  cliff  to  fly, 
Filling  with  thy  cries  the  air, 

Calling  him  continually, 
Swallow  from  beyond  the  sea ! 

Could  I  too!  —  but  I  must  pine, 
In  this  dungeon  close  and  low, 

Where  the  sun  can  never  shine, 
Where  the  breeze  can  never  blow, 

Whence  my  voice  scarce  reaches  thee, 
Swallow  from  beyond  the  sea ! 

4 


WILLIAM  CULLEN  BRYANT 

Now  September  days  are  near, 
Thou  to  distant  lands  will  fly, 

In  another  hemisphere; 
Other  streams  shall  hear  thy  cry, 

Other  hills  shall  answer  thee, 
Swallow  from  beyond  the  sea! 

Then  shall  I  when  daylight  glows, 
Waking  to  the  sense  of  pain, 

'Midst  the  wintry  frosts  and  snows, 
Think  I  hear  thy  notes  again  — 

Notes  that  seem  to  grieve  for  me, 
Swallow  from  beyond  the  sea! 

Planted  here  upon  the  ground, 
Thou  shalt  find  a  cross  in  spring; 

There,  as  evening  gathers  'round, 
Swallow,  come  and  rest  thy  wing. 

Chant  a  strain  of  peace  to  me, 

Swallow  from  beyond  the  sea! 
Vidette,  1871. 


MARTIAL,   BOOK  X 

EPIGRAM  23 

WILLIAM  CULLEN  BRYANT  1813 

OH  fortunate  Antonius!  o'er  whose  head 
Calm  days  have  flown  and  closed  the  sixtieth  year, 
Back  on  this  flight  he  looks  and  feels  no  dread 
To  think  that  Lethe's  waters  flow  so  near. 
There  is  no  day  of  all  the  train  that  gives 
A  pang;  no  moment  that  he  would  forget. 
A  good  man's  span  is  doubled;  twice  he  lives 
Who,  viewing  his  past  life,  enjoys  it  yet. 
Quarterly,  1865. 


EXEGI   MONUMENTUM 
TO  MELPOMENE 

"  Horace,"!  Ode  30,  Book  in. 
E.  C.  BENEDICT  '21' 

I'VE  a  monument  reared  more  enduring  than  brass, 

Which  is  higher  than  pyramids  built  by  the  kings, 
Through  the  rains  and  the  tempests,  unharmed,  it  shall  pass, 

And  the  wear  the  corrosion  of  centuries  brings. 
For,  not  all  shall  I  die,  but  my  greater  part  still 

Shall  survive  from  the  grave,  and  my  fame  shall  increase 
Long  as  virgin  and  priest  on  the  Capitol  Hill 

Shall  ascend  to  their  altars  in  silence  and  peace. 
Where  once  Daunus  of  deserts  and  rustics  was  king, 

Where  swift  Aufidus  roars,  in  my  praise  shall  be  told 
That,  though  humble  in  birth,  I  was  foremost  to  bring 

Into  Italy's  songs  the  Greek  music  of  old. 
Then,  Melpomene,  take  to  thyself  all  the  pride 

Of  the  glory  thy  merits  so  justly  declare, 
And  now  freely  of  Delphian  laurel  provide 

A  fresh  coronal  wreath  to  encircle  thy  hair. 

Athenceum,  1875. 

1  The  Melpomene  of  Horace  was,  I  suppose,  the  Greek  muse  of  sing- 
ing, not  the  muse  of  tragedy,  nor  a  general  muse. 

*  Died  1880. 


THE  SCULPTOR  TO  HIS  STATUE 

JOHN  J.  INGALLS  '55  x 

"Tnou  silent,  pallid  dream,  in  marble  stone! 

No  rare,  sweet  phantasie  which  my  divine 
And  all  unearthly-mingled  soul  has  thrown 

Around  a  glowing  form,  art  thou,  where  shine, 

As  garlands  wove  about  a  kindled  shrine, 
The  beauties  of  a  godlike  art  and  more 

Etherial  thought  fashioned  to  high  design, 
But  a  remembrance  of  that  unknown  shore 
Where  youth  and  love  eterne  on  spirit  pinions  soar. 

"  O'er  the  hushed  vales  and  gulfy  hills  of  Greece 
Night  brooded  on  her  darkly  jewelled  wing, 

Binding  in  drowsy  chains  of  dewy  peace 

Sweet  birds,  white  flocks  and  every  living  thing, 
And  lapsing  streams  which  to  the  forest  sing. 

Beneath  that  pillared  fane  which  guards  the  place 
Where  spirits  twain  sleep  in  the  charmed  ring, 

I  slept  after  the  banquet,  and  the  rays 

Of  a  past  heaven  flashed  on  my  soul's  astonished  gaze. 

"  The  emerald  isles  that  sail  a  silver  sea, 

Caverned  by  plumy  groves  of  sunny  palm, 
Broke  on  my  startled  vision  suddenly; 
When  as  but  quickly  parted,  sweet  and  calm, 
That  long  forgot  yet  ever  haunting  psalm 
Floated  from  lips  that  flew  to  greet  me  home. 
A  meteor  flamed;  I  woke  in  rude  alarm; 
1  Died  1900. 
8 


JOHN  J.  INGALLS  9 

Above  me  orbed  the  temple's  sullen  dome; 

Around  me  swam  the  early  morning's  starless  gloom. 

"  Of  that  fair  dream  thou  art  the  memory, 

My  genius,  in  its  wildest  fancy,  bound 
And  petrified  to  immortality ! 

A  holy  presence  seems  to  hover  round 

The  deep,  perpetual  loveliness,  as  crowned 
With  angel  radiance,  and  plumed  for  flight, 

Thy  pinioned  sandals  spurn  the  flowerless  ground, 
Striving  to  gain  that  far  Olympian  height 
Towards  which  in  rapturous  awe  upturns  thy  longing 
sight. 

"  Why  are  thy  parted  lips  so  dumb  and  cold? 

Else  with  my  eager  arms  about  thee  thrown 
And  folded  in  thy  soft  embrace,  had  rolled 

The  Lethean  tide  of  love,  in  which,  unknown 

And  all  unheeded  in  their  state,  had  flown 
The  future  and  the  past,  merged  in  that  sea 

The  present,  whose  far  deeps  are  felt  alone 
By  the  pale  diver,  reaching  breathlessly 
Through  pearled  and  coral  caves  concealed  from  mortal 
eye. 

'*  Oh,  shape  divine!  Such  madd'ning  grace  must  have 

A  soul,  a  consciousness  of  love  and  life 
Though  tombed  in  pallor,  with  no  epitaph 

But  silence  1  What  mighty  spell  with  power  rife 

Can  wake  thee  into  Being's  passion  strife? 
Yet  if  there  be  such,  let  it  rest  unsought; 

For  every  boon  thou  couldst  from  breath  derive 
I  would  not  wrest  from  thee  that  higher  lot, 
The  need  of  deathlessness,  thou  pale,  embodied  thought! 


io  A  WILLIAMS   ANTHOLOGY 

"  Great  poet  souls  and  people  yet  unborn 

Shall  lay  their  speechless  homage  at  thy  feet, 
And  still  thy  life  be  in  its  rosy  dawn, 

Whose  eve  eternity  alone  shall  greet. 

While  I,  to  whom  thy  changeless  smile  were  sweet 
As  heaven,  long  mingled  with  earth's  vilest  mould, 

Shall  be  forgot !  What  wealth  of  fame  can  mete 
The  loss  of  love?  None,  none !  Thy  fate  is  cold, 
But  oh,  what  starry  treasures  might  it  not  unfold!" 

He  ceased.  A  lambent  halo  seemed  to  play 
About  her  head,  as  lightnings  round  the  moon; 

Her  marble  tresses  streamed  in  golden  spray  — 
A  tremor  throbbed  along  her  limbs  of  stone, 
And  sky-hued  veins  with  life's  warm  pulses  shone. 

One  thought  of  wordless  love  beamed  from  her  eyes, 
Then,  gently  floating  from  her  shining  throne 

'Mid  blushing  smiles  half  drowned  in  tearful  sighs, 

She  faded  slowly  heavenward  through  the  sunset  skies. 

Quarterly,  1853. 


OPPORTUNITY 

JOHN  J.  INGALLS  '55 

MASTER  of  human  destinies  am  I; 

Fame,  love,  and  fortune  on  my  footsteps  wait. 

Cities  and  fields  I  walk;  I  penetrate 

Deserts  and  seas  remote,  and,  passing  by 

Hovel  and  mart  and  palace,  soon  or  late, 

I  knock  unbidden  once  on  every  gate. 

If  sleeping,  wake;  if  feasting,  rise  before 

I  turn  away;  it  is  the  hour  of  fate, 

And  they  who  follow  me  reach  every  state 

Mortals  desire,  and  conquer  every  foe 

Save  death;  but  those  who  doubt  or  hesitate, 

Condemned  to  failure,  penury,  and  woe, 

Seek  me  in  vain  and  uselessly  implore; 

I  answer  not,  and  I  return  no  more. 

The  date  of  first  appearance  of  this  sonnet  is  not  known  to  the 
editors.  It  is  extracted  here  from  Professor  A.  L.  Perry's  Williams* 
town  and  Williams  College,  (1899),  and  of  it  Dr.  Perry  remarks: 
"Ingalls  also  wrote  a  notable  sonnet  on  '  Opportunity,'  which  will  no 
doubt  survive,  for  it  has  a  fine  form  and  considerable  literary  merit, 
though  godless  in  every  line." 


II 


AUTUMN 

JAMES  A.  GARFIELD  '56 l 

OLD  Autumn  thou  art  here !  upon  the  Earth 

And  in  the  heavens,  the  signs  of  death  are  hung; 

For  o  'er  the  Earth's  brown  breast  stalks  pale  decay, 

And  'mong  the  lowering  clouds  the  wild  winds  wail, 

And,  sighing  sadly,  chant  the  solemn  dirge 

O'er  summer's  fairest  flowers,  all  faded  now. 

The  Winter  god,  descending  from  the  skies, 

Has  reached  the  mountain  tops,  and  decked  their  brows 

With  glittering  frosty  crowns,  and  breathed  his  breath 

Among  the  trumpet  pines,  that  herald  forth 

His  coming. 

Before  the  driving  blast 
The  mountain  oak  bows  down  his  hoary  head, 
And  flings  his  withered  locks  to  the  rough  gales 
That  fiercely  roar  among  the  branches  bare, 
Uplifted  to  the  dark  unpitying  heavens. 
The  skies  have  put  their  mourning  garments  on 
And  hung  their  funeral  drapery  on  the  clouds. 
Dead  Nature  soon  will  wear  her  shroud  of  snow 
And  lie  entombed  in  Winter's  icy  grave. 

Thus  passes  life.  As  hoary  age  comes  on 
The  joys  of  youth  —  bright  beauties  of  the  spring, 
Grow  dim  and  faded,  and  the  long  dark  night 
Of  Death's  chill  Winter  comes.  But  as  the  spring 

1  Died  1881. 
12 


JAMES  A.  GARFIELD  13 

Rebuilds  the  ruined  wrecks  of  Winter's  waste, 
And  cheers  the  gloomy  earth  with  joyous  light, 
So  o'er  the  tomb,  the  Star  of  Hope  shall  rise, 
And  usher  in  an  ever  during  day. 
Quarterly,  1854. 


IN   THE  FOREST 

ANON. 

WE  lie  beneath  the  forest  shade 
Whose  sunny  tremors  dapple  us; 

She  is  a  proud-eyed  Grecian  maid 
And  I  am  Sardanapalus; 

A  king  uncrowned  whose  sole  allegiance 

Resides  in  dusky  forest  regions. 

How  cool  and  liquid  seems  the  sky; 

How  blue  and  still  the  distance  is ! 
White  fleets  of  cloud  at  anchor  lie 

And  mute  are  all  existences, 
Save  here  and  there  a  bird  that  launches 
A  shaft  of  song  among  the  branches. 

Within  this  alien  realm  of  shade 

We  keep  a  sylvan  Passover; 
We  happy  twain,  a  wayward  maid, 

A  careless,  gay  philosopher; 
But  unto  me  she  seems  a  Venus 
And  Paphian  grasses  nod  between  us. 

Her  drooping  eyelids  half  conceal 
A  vague,  uncertain  mystery; 

Her  tender  glances  half  reveal 
A  sad,  impassioned  history; 

A  tale  of  hopes  and  fears  unspoken 

Of  thoughts  that  die  and  leave  no  token. 
14 


ANON. 

"  Oh  braid  a  wreath  of  budding  sprays 

And  crown  me  queen,"  the  maiden  says; 
"Queen  of  the  shadowy  woodland  ways, 

And  wandering  winds,  whose  cadences 
Are  unto  thee  that  tale  repeating 
Which  I  must  perish  while  secreting!" 

I  wove  a  wreath  of  leaves  and  buds 
And  flowers  with  golden  chalices, 

And  crowned  her  queen  of  summer  woods 
And  dreamy  forest  palaces; 

Queen  of  that  realm  whose  tender  story 

Makes  life  a  splendor,  death  a  glory. 
Quarterly,  1856. 


CORSICA 

ANON. 

A  LONELY  island  in  the  South,  it  shows 
Its  frosted  brow,  and  waves  its  shaggy  woods, 
And  sullenly  above  the  billow  broods. 

Here  he  that  shook  the  frighted  world  arose. 

'T  was  here  he  gained  the  strength  the  wing  to  plume, 
To  swoop  upon  the  Arno's  classic  plains, 
And  drink  the  noblest  blood  of  Europe's  veins  — 

His  eye  but  glanced  and  nations  felt  their  doom! 

Alas !  '  *  how  art  thou  falPn,  oh  Lucifer, 

Son  of  the  morning!"  thou  who  wast  the  scourge 
And  glory  of  the  earth — whose  nod  could  urge 

Proud  armies  deathward  at  the  trump  of  war! 
And  did'st  thou  die  on  lone  Helena's  isle? 
And  art  thou  nought  but  dust  and  ashes  vile  ? 
Quarterly,  1857. 


16 


LOOKING  BACKWARD 

WASHINGTON  GLADDEN  '59 

FROM  one  who  belonged  in  a  remote  antiquity  to  the 
fraternity  of  college  editors,  a  contribution  to  this  centen- 
nial number  l  has  been  solicited.  Perhaps  I  can  do  no  bet- 
ter than  to  recall  a  few  impressions  of  my  own  life  in  college. 
Every  year,  at  the  banquet,  I  observe  that  I  am  pushed  a 
little  nearer  to  the  border  where  the  almond  tree  flourishes, 
and  I  shall  soon  have  a  right  to  be  reminiscent  and  garru- 
lous. At  the  next  centennial  I  shall  not  be  called  on;  this 
is  my  last  chance. 

I  came  to  college  in  the  fall  of  1856.  My  class  had  been 
in  college  for  a  year,  so  that  the  vicissitudes  of  a  freshman 
are  no  part  of  my  memory.  I  shall  never  forget  that 
evening  when  I  first  entered  Williamstown,  riding  on  the 
top  of  the  North  Adams  stage.  The  September  rains  had 
been  abundant,  and  the  meadows  and  slopes  were  at  their 
greenest;  the  atmosphere  was  as  nearly  transparent  as  we 
are  apt  to  see  it;  the  sun  was  just  sinking  behind  the  Ta- 
conics,  and  the  shadows  were  creeping  up  the  eastern  slopes 
of  Williams  and  Prospect;  as  we  paused  on  the  little  hill 
beyond  Blackinton  the  outline  of  the  Saddle  was  defined 
against  a  sky  as  rich  and  deep  as  ever  looked  down  at  sun- 
set on  Naples  or  Palermo.  I  thought  then  that  I  had 
never  seen  a  lovelier  valley,  and  I  have  had  no  occasion  to 
revise  that  judgment.  To  a  boy  who  had  seen  few  moun- 
tains that  hour  was  a  revelation.  On  the  side  of  the  pic- 
turesque, the  old  way  of  transportation  was  better  than  the 
new.  The  boy  who  is  dumped  with  his  trunks  at  the  station 
1  October,  1893. 
17  • 


i8  A  WILLIAMS  ANTHOLOGY 

near  the  factory  on  the  flat  gets  no  such  abundant  entrance 
into  Williamstown  as  was  vouchsafed  to  the  boy  who  rode 
in  triumphantly  on  the  top  of  Jim  Bridges'  stage. 

The  wide  old  street  was  as  hospitable  then  as  now;  if  the 
elms  were  something  less  paternal  in  their   benediction 
their  stature  was  fair  and  their  shade  was  ample;  but  the 
aspect  of  the  street  —  how  greatly  changed  since  then! 
There  were  two  or  three  fine  old  colonial  houses,  which  are 
standing  now  and  are  not  likely  to  be  improved  upon;  but 
most  of  the  dwellings  were  of  the  orthodox  New  England 
village  pattern,  built,  I  suppose,  to  square  with  the  theology 
of  the  Shorter  Catechism,  or  perhaps  with  the  measure- 
ments of  the  New  Jerusalem,  the  length  and  breadth  and 
height  of  which  are  equal.    The  front  yards  were  all  en- 
closed with  fences,  none  of  which  were  useful  and  few  of 
which  were  ornamental.    The  broad-shouldered  old  white 
Congregational  meeting-house  stood  at  the  top  of  the  street 
in  Field  Park;  it  was  the  goal  of  restless  Sophomores  for 
several  hours  every  Sunday,  and  it  was  also  the  goal  of  all 
ambitious  contestants  for  college  honors.    Griffin  Hall  was 
then  chapel,  museum,  laboratories,  and  recitation-rooms; 
East,  South,  and  West  Colleges,  with  Kellogg  Hall,  on  the 
West  lawn,  —  "factories  of  the  muses,"  in  Lowell's  expres- 
sive phrase,  —  stood  forth  in  their  naked  practicality  much 
as  they  stand  to-day.  Lawrence  Hall  library,  in  its  earlier, 
wingless  character  of  colossal  ink-pot,  Jackson  Hall l  and 
the  little  magnetic  observatory,  still  standing,  completed 
the  catalogue  of  the  college  buildings. 

The  faculty  of  that  day  can  be  recalled  without  difficulty: 
President  Hopkins,  whose  clear  and  venerable  name  no 
eulogy  of  mine  shall  here  disfigure ;  his  stern-faced  but  great- 
hearted brother  Albert;  Emmons  the  geologist;  Griffin,  Tat- 
lock,  Lincoln,  and  Chadbourne,  who  succeeded  Hopkins 
1  Demolished  in  1908. 


WASHINGTON  GLADDEN  19 

in  the 'presidency;  Bascom,  the  only  survivor  to-day,  and 
Perry,  the  best-known  of  them  all.  I  have  taken  no  pains 
to  refresh  my  memory  of  the  faculty  of  1856,  but  I  am  con- 
fident that  here  are  no  omissions.  It  will  be  somewhat  less 
easy  for  undergraduates  to-day,  writing  so  many  eventful 
years  after  their  entrance,  to  recall  the  names  of  their 
teachers.  One  only  of  our  memorable  nine  is  now  in  ser- 
vice, and  long  may  he  serve  the  community!  All  these  were 
ranked  as  professors;  there  had  been  tutors  and  instructors 
before  our  days,  but  none  in  our  time. 

The  Gul  of  those  days  was  a  four-page  sheet  con- 
taining in  briefest  form  the  membership  and  official  lists 
of  the  various  fraternities  and  associations;  it  sold  for  ten 
cents  a  copy.  The  only  other  college  publication  was  the 
Quarterly,  a  solid  magazine  of  about  one  hundred  pages. 
None  of  the  fraternities  then  existing,  I  think,  possessed  a 
chapter-house;  their  rooms  were  in  more  or  less  obscure 
quarters,  over  stores  or  in  private  houses.  There  was  quite 
as  much  rivalry  between  them  then  as  now,  and  poorer 
spirit.  There  was  also  an  Anti-Secret  Confederation,  of 
which  General  Garfield  in  his  time  was  the  leader;  it  mixed 
freely  in  college  politics  and  was  no  less  clannish  than  the 
other  fraternities.  The  absence  of  chapter-houses  and  the 
less  fully  developed  social  life  of  the  fraternities  left  room 
for  a  stronger  class  feeling  and  perhaps  a  more  sympathetic 
college  spirit  than  exists  to-day.  The  smallness  of  the  classes 
and  the  absence  of  the  electives,  too,  aided  the  cultivation 
of  class  feeling;  the  classes  ranged  from  forty-five  to  sixty, 
and  the  whole  class  was  held  solidly  together  during  the 
whole  course,  all  reciting  in  the  same  room  three  times  a  day 
from  the  beginning  of  freshman  year  to  the  end  of  senior. 

College  singing  was  hearty  and  spirited,  but  our  reper- 
toire was  limited.  I  recall  many  evenings  of  blameless  hi- 
larity on  the  benches  under  the  trees  in  front  of  East  Col- 


20  A  WILLIAMS  ANTHOLOGY 

lege.  For  more  ambitious  musical  performance  we  had  our 
"Mendelssohn  Society,"  whose  concerts  were  not  probably 
so  classical  as  we  then  esteemed  them,  but  whose  rehearsals 
gave  us  not  a  little  pleasure.  Athletics  had  hardly  a  name 
to  live.  Now  and  then  a  football  was  mysteriously  dropped 
into  the  West  College  yard,  and  kicked  about  in  a  very 
promiscuous  fashion;  the  freshmen  and  sophomores  gener- 
ally had  a  match  of  what  was  by  courtesy  called  base-ball. 
The  only  intercollegiate  contest  of  which  I  had  any  recol- 
lection, and  as  it  seems  the  first  ever  to  take  place,  was  a 
ball  game  at  Pittsfield  between  Williams  and  Amherst. 
Amherst  was  the  challenging  party,  and  the  college  by  vote 
selected  its  team  with  much  care  and  went  forth  to  the  con- 
test with  strong  hopes.  The  game  was  not  lacking  in  excite- 
ment. It  was  none  of  your  new-fangled,  umpire-ridden 
matches:  the  modern  type  of  base-ball  had  not,  of  course, 
been  invented.  Foul  balls  were  unknown,  the  sphere  could 
be  knocked  toward  any  quarter  of  the  earth  or  sky;  runners 
between  bases  could  be  pelted  with  it  by  any  of  the  out- 
fielders. I  think  that  the  score  stood  something  like  60  to 
40,  and  it  was  not  in  favor  of  Williams.  It  was  a  melan- 
choly company  that  trailed  homeward  after  this  contest 
past  the  Lanesboro  pond;  but  since  then  I  understand  that 
times  have  changed. 

[Dr.   Gladden  has  embodied  his  college  reminiscences 
more  fully  in   his  recent   volume  Recollections,  wherein 
is  told  also  the  story  of  "The  Mountains.'*   (Houghton 
Mifflin  Company,  1909.)] 
Literary  Monthly,  1893. 


TO  THE  MOUNTAINS  OF  WILLIAMS- 
TOWN 

ON  THE  INTRODUCTION  OF  THE  NEW 
RAILROAD 

ANON. 

YE  guardian  mountains  of  the  western  world, 

Enthroned  like  monarchs  of  primeval  days! 

Ye  that  hold  lofty  converse  with  the  stars, 

And  bind  your  shaggy  brows  with  clustering  clouds 

As  if  with  wreaths  of  laurel !  ye  that  count 

Your  years  by  thousands,  and  your  bosoms  robe 

With  all  the  pageantry  of  Autumn's  gold, 

And  lull  your  sleep  of  ages  with  the  wild 

And  murmurous  drone  of  woodland  waterfalls, 

And  multitudinous  song  of  windy  groves ! 

What  spell  hath  bound  ye  now?  what  lethargy 
O'ercomes  your  ancient  power?  that  undisturbed 
Ye  slumber  on,  as  if  ye  heeded  not 
The  piercing  shriek  from  yonder  fuming  car, 
Which  saith  that  even  here  presumptuous  man 
Has  dared  intrude  upon  the  green  domain, 
Which  ye  inherited  when  Time  was  born. 
Awake!  arise!  are  ye  forever  dumb? 
Let  Greylock,  most  majestic  of  your  band, 
Stand  up  and  shout  aloud  to  Audubon, 
Until  from  peak  to  peak  the  sound  rolls  round, 
Until  yon  mountain  that  o'erlooks  the  west 
21 


22  A  WILLIAMS  ANTHOLOGY 

Takes  up  the  cry,  of  vengeance  upon  him 
Whose  strange  devices  break  your  long  repose. 

In  vain !  ye  are  indeed  forever  dumb, 
Obedient  to  the  will  of  Destiny, 
Who  sits  enthroned  among  the  stars  of  heaven, 
And  unto  man's  inquiring  vision  points 
Toward  the  westering  sun  forevermore. 
Such  is  the  law  that  rules  the  universe;  — 
Planets  and  systems,  e'en  the  sun  himself, 
Around  one  common  point  progressive  move. 
And  thus  a  few  millenniums  more  shall  man 
Proclaim  the  march  of  mind,  and  when  ye  pass 
Into  oblivion  with  your  weight  of  years, 
When  galaxies  and  suns  are  quenched  in  gloom, 
Th'  unshackled  soul  of  man,  itself  a  star 
Lit  by  the  smile  of  God,  shall  wing  through  space, 
The  destined  heir  to  immortality. 
Quarterly,  1859. 


THE  YELLOW  JASMINE 

FRANKLIN  CARTER  '62 

YE  golden  bells,  that  toss  your  heaven-born  fragrance 

On  air  around, 
And  know  to  make  the  most  harmonious  music 

Without  a  sound! 

Ye  fragile  flowers,  whose  delicate,  dear  tendrils 

Upward  do  climb, 
Reveal  to  us  the  sweet,  mysterious  secret 

Of  love  sublime ! 

Entwining  with  your  gentle  cunning  fingers 

The  ragged  tree, 
Ye  leave  behind  ye  crowns  and  chaplets  wondrous, 

Of  jewelry! 

Not  pearls  nor  diamonds  of  a  radiance  peerless, 

Not  amethyst, 
When  softly  swaying  on  the  human  bosom, 

Or  flexile  wrist, 

Can  add  to  life  and  beauty  lustrous  splendor, 

With  grace  divine, 
As  when  ye  wreathe  on  gnarled  oak  and  holly 

Your  trailing  vine ! 

Oh,  love  of  God !  in  gracious  ways  unnumbered, 

With  gentlest  touch, 
Thou  teachest  men  and  pitifully  showest 

Of  patience  much! 

23 


24  A  WILLIAMS  ANTHOLOGY 

We  pray,  dear  Father,  teach  thine  erring  children 

This  lesson  meet  — 
To  climb  through  fragile,  earth  born,  human  tendrils 

To  life  complete. 
Quarterly,  1871. 


AFTER  DINNER  SPEECHES 

FRANKLIN  CARTER  '62 

ACCORDING  to  common  opinion  Americans  are  the  nation 
most  addicted  to  speechmaking.  Laboulaye  makes  a  good 
point  by  representing  the  son  of  a  leading  character  in 
"Paris  in  America"  discovered  by  his  father  before  a  large 
audience,  in  the  full  tide  of  political  speech,  and  maintain- 
ing afterwards  to  the  old  gentleman  that  it  is  the  common 
practice  among  all  the  boys  to  make  a  speech  on  every  pos- 
sible occasion,  that  they  may  thus  fit  themselves  for  public 
life. 

In  New  York,  which  tends  rapidly  to  become  the  center 
of  activity  for  most  of  the  important  influences  of  our  coun- 
try, there  are  every  year  many  dinners,  anniversaries,  and 
assemblies,  at  which  oratory  of  an  ephemeral  nature  finds 
expression  and  attention.  All  the  nationalities,  all  the  re- 
ligious and  literary  societies,  all  the  clubs,  all  the  distin- 
guished foreigners,  and  all  the  leading  and  following  col- 
leges, must  have  a  dinner,  and  every  dinner  must  have  at 
least  a  dozen  speeches.  Most  of  these  speeches  are  more  elo- 
quent to  the  opinion  of  their  authors  than  to  the  minds  of 
their  hearers. 

It  certainly  is  one  of  the  best  moral  illustrations  of  the 
first  law  of  motion  that  in  spite  of  all  the  heroism  necessary 
to  endure  such  a  volume  of  speech,  the  patient  public  seems 
(if  we  may  judge  from  the  increase  in  volume)  every  year 
more  and  more  willing  to  sit  at  the  tables  and  listen  to  this 
flow  of  sound.  Perhaps  this  patience  is  only  apparent,  for 
competition  for  an  opportunity  to  speak  is  said  to  be  lively. 
Possibly  every  one  of  the  thousands  who  listen  is  secretly 

25 


26  A  WILLIAMS  ANTHOLOGY 

comparing  the  eloquence  of  the  speaker  with  his  own  skilful 
ability,  and  not  quite  calmly  biding  the  time  when  he  shall 
enrapture,  where  the  present  speaker  wearies  and  annoys. 

Yet  not  every  speech  made  on  those  occasions  is  dull. 
Now  and  then  the  happy  mingling  of  fun  and  sense  really 
lifts  the  company  out  of  the  tiresome  monotony.  Were  it 
not  for  these  addresses  beautiful  and  rare,  we  can  believe 
that  dinner  speeches  would  be  abandoned,  or  exchanged  for 
a  single  oration  from  one  competent  to  delight. 

For  the  distinguishing  mark  of  the  dinner  speech  should 
be  that  it  amuse  not  in  the  rough,  coarse  way  of  the  dema- 
gogue, but  in  the  subtle,  fine  way  of  the  man  of  culture. 

The  dinner  speeches  with  which  the  readers  of  this  paper 
are  perhaps  most  familiar,  those  made  when  the  alumni  of 
a  noble  college  gather  around  the  table  of  their  alma  mater, 
ought  to  be  characterized  by  the  broad  sympathy,  the  quick 
insight,  the  flexible  grace  and  the  genial  humor  of  the 
thoroughly  educated  man.  Although  to  make  fine  dinner 
speeches  can  never  be  an  aim  worthy  of  an  earnest  man, 
yet  to  have  the  power  and  culture  from  which  such  a  speech 
usually  comes,  is  the  highest  aim  in  a  literary  regard  that  any 
man  can  have.  It  is  a  short-sighted  and  one-sighted  earnest- 
ness that  despises  the  wit  and  banter  of  society,  and  affects 
the  isolation  and  grandeur  of  pure  thought.  The  mountain 
summit  is  too  far  removed  from  the  walks  of  men  to  make 
it  possible  for  the  recluse  to  wield  all  the  influence  that  his 
powers  may  entitle  him  to  exert.  The  metaphysician  less 
than  the  poet,  the  country  minister  less  than  the  success- 
ful lawyer,  is  the  autocrat  of  the  dinner-table. 

Because  Williams  and  Yale  have  produced  great  and 
useful  men,  it  does  not  follow  that  their  commencement 
dinners  are  always  marked  by  the  finest  flow  of  wit  and  wis- 
dom, nor  that  pioneers  in  civilization  who  bring  great  honor 
to  their  alma  mater  should  always  and  everywhere  speak 


FRANKLIN  CARTER  27 

for  her.  Dinner-speaking  is  a  fine  art,  not  one  for  which 
men  need  absolutely  European  travel  and  study,  but  one 
which  is  never  mastered  except  by  those  who  love  and  per- 
haps know  how  to  reach  all  the  beautiful  thoughts  of  every 
age  and  clime.  It  is  the  cultured  gentleman  of  social  experi- 
ence, who  may  or  may  not  be  a  man  of  great  ability,  but 
who  knows  how  to  weave  the  poetic  and  humorous  and 
commonplace  into  beautiful  or  grotesque  forms,  that  de- 
lights and  surprises  a  dinner  company.  Social  experience 
and  good  abilities  will  not  alone  make  the  successful  speaker. 
Underneath  and  back  of  all  must  be  the  gentleman.  A  law- 
yer, though  of  splendid  position,  can  ill  afford  to  say  at  the 
festal  table  of  his  alma  mater,  "Harvard  takes  great  poets 
and  historians  to  fill  her  vacant  professorships;  my  college 
takes  boys,  who  have  proved  their  qualifications  by  getting 
their  windows  broken."  Those  who  go  deeper  than  the  sur- 
face will  perhaps  surmise  that  Harvard  has  had  better  ma- 
terial to  work  upon  than  some  colleges ;  not  perhaps  material 
of  finer  abilities,  but  material  that  has  been  more  under  the 
influence  of  sweetness  and  light.  Possibly  her  graduates  are 
as  superior  at  making  dinner  speeches  as  are  her  trustees 
in  choosing  professors. 

A  gentleman  must  make  the  happy  dinner-speech,  for 
only  he  can  perceive  the  proprieties  of  the  situation.  He 
will  neither  improve  the  occasion  to  give  the  corporation 
advice  as  to  the  management  of  the  college,  nor  try  to  point 
out  to  a  company  of  Unitarians  the  superior  advantages 
of  the  orthodox  faith,  nor  exhibit  to  invited  guests  the  rags 
of  his  alma  mater's  poverty.  He  may,  perhaps,  avoid  the 
commonplace  by  so  doing,  but  he  will  certainly  transgress 
the  rules  of  propriety.  The  commonplace  at  a  dinner,  re- 
peated every  year  under  so  nearly  similar  conditions,  cannot 
be  avoided,  but  can  be  transformed  by  the  art  of  the  master. 

What  could  be  more  difficult  than  the  duty  of  presiding 


28  A  WILLIAMS  ANTHOLOGY 

at  the  dinner  of  the  New  England  Society  and  rehearsing 
the  threadbare  story  of  the  landing  of  the  Pilgrims  and 
dilating  upon  it  in  such  a  way  as  to  entertain  New  Eng- 
landers,  who  ever  since  their  childhood  have  heard  the  de- 
clamations of  Webster,  Everett,  Winthrop,  and  the  rest, 
about  that  heroic  band?  Yet  by  a  mixture  of  shrewd  wit  and 
eloquence  Mr.  Choate,  a  Harvard  graduate,  went  over 
again,  last  year,  at  the  sixty-fourth  anniversary  of  the  so- 
ciety, the  main  facts  of  the  history,  and  dwelt  upon  the  re- 
lations of  New  Englanders  to  New  York,  making  a  speech 
that,  printed,  fills  ten  octavo  pages  but  which  the  audience 
found  charming  from  beginning  to  end. 

This,  like  every  other  fine  art,  has  something  cosmopoli- 
tan in  it.  It  eschews  the  local  and  narrow,  refuses  to  belong 
to  any  sect  or  party,  and  appeals  by  the  widest  culture  to  men 
of  culture.  The  dinner  speeches  of  our  own  Bryant  are  thus 
liberal  and  catholic.  So  were  those  of  Mr.  Everett  in  the 
main,  though  one  discovered  the  superb  actor  now  and  then 
arranging  his  robe  or  making  use  of  his  splendid  presence 
and  reputation  to  draw  attention  to  himself.  Of  course, 
when  such  a  man  comes  as  a  guest  into  a  company  somewhat 
foreign  in  thought  and  life  to  his  own  belongings,  he  can 
neglect  the  rules  that  good  breeding  imposes  on  those  who 
compose  the  homogeneous  circles  and  become  narrow.  But 
he  must  be  narrow  by  praising  not  his  own  methods  but  the 
unexpected  excellence  of  life  found  among  his  hosts  —  thus, 
while  apparently  dwarfing  himself,  he  throws  the  dignity 
of  his  own  reputation  and  history  over  that  which  he  eulo- 
gizes and  really  exhibits  the  truest  catholicity  of  spirit. 
To  do  this  and  perfectly  conceal  the  satisfaction  that  one 
has,  because  he  can  do  it,  was  perhaps  difficult  for  Everett. 
Most  men  who  heard  him  pardoned  the  failure.  It  was  easier 
for  Dickens.  His  life  was  in  some  sense  less  splendid  but 
more  real. 


FRANKLIN  CARTER  29 

The  amusement  and  good  feeling  which  it  is  always  the 
aim  of  the  dinner  speaker  to  create,  were  largely  the  aim 
of  Dickens'  life.  The  humor,  the  knowledge  of  human  na- 
ture, that  he  always  had  at  command,  were  employed  in 
his  writings  and  daily  thoughts  to  enliven  and  cheer  men. 
No  wonder  then  that  his  speeches  are  models  of  breadth 
and  sweetness  and  appositeness,  and  that  good  judges  re- 
garded him  when  living  as  in  this  department  of  expres- 
sion unrivalled. 

He  who  is  so  guided  by  the  love  of  letters  engrafted  on 
the  love  of  man  as  to  give  constant  and  ample  expression 
to  these  motives,  will  be  neither  a  reformer  without  grace 
nor  a  scholar  without  manliness.  Give  to  such  a  man  a 
flow  of  animal  spirits  and  a  dash  of  wit,  and  he  should  be 
not  unapt  to  entertain  even  when  poised  on  the  dangerous 
wing  of  an  after-dinner  speech. 

Review,  1870. 


THE  STUDENT  COMMUNITY 

HAMILTON  WRIGHT  MABIE  '67 

A  VERY  interesting  and  significant  feature  of  university 
life  in  the  early  days  was  the  great  part  played  by  stu- 
dents in  the  scholastic  community.  They  were  not  only 
included  in  the  group  described  by  the  word  "faculty," 
but  they  were  charged  with  administrative  and  executive 
functions.  The  movement  toward  self-government,  which 
has  already  borne  fruit  in  many  of  our  colleges,  is  in  no  sense 
a  modern  influence ;  it  is  a  return  to  a  condition  widely  pre- 
valent in  the  early  history  of  university  organization.  Not 
only  did  the  students  share,  through  various  deliberative 
bodies,  in  the  determination  of  the  gravest  questions  of 
academic  policy,  but,  in  many  cases,  the  executive  head  of 
the  university  was  not  only  chosen  by  them  but  was  often 
one  of  their  number.  The  rector  of  the  Italian  universities 
was  in  most  instances  a  student,  often  under  twenty-five 
years  of  age.  The  rector  of  the  University  of  Paris,  who  was 
charged  with  the  gravest  administrative  functions,  took 
precedence  of  the  archbishop,  and  sat  at  times  in  the  royal 
councils  with  princes  and  nobles,  was  originally  elected  by 
the  student  communities,  and  was  often  a  very  young  man; 
and  yet  Paris  was  essentially  a  university  of  professors. 
Bologna,  which  was  a  university  of  students,  was  governed 
directly  by  the  general  assembly  of  undergraduates.  Whether 
governed  by  students  or  by  masters,  —  alumni  as  we  should 
sayy — these  historic  institutions  were  essentially  demo- 
cratic, and  the  student  seems  on  the  whole  to  have  been  the 
most  important  figure;  not  only  because  at  the  beginning 
he  formed  the  constituency  for  the  popular  teacher,  but 
because  later  when  these  throngs  of  students  formally  or- 

30 


HAMILTON  WRIGHT  MABIE  31 

ganized.  he  had  the  largest  share  of  privileges  and  for  a  long 
time  the  controlling  voice  in  the  management  of  affairs. 

"Universities,"  said  Professor  Croisat  at  the  centenary 
of  the  University  of  Montpellier  in  1889,  "do  not  come 
into  the  world  with  a  clatter.  What  we  know  least  about 
in  all  our  history  is  the  precise  moment  when  it  (Mont- 
pellier) began."  It  is  impossible,  in  many  instances,  to  fix 
the  date  of  organization  of  many  of  the  foremost  of  the 
older  institutions;  they  were  not  made,  they  grew.  There 
was  a  deep  necessity  for  their  existence  in  the  intellectual 
and  spiritual  condition  of  the  times,  and  they  sprang  into 
being  here  and  there,  in  Italy,  France,  Spain,  and  Eng- 
land, in  response  to  that  need.  They  were  notable,  at  the 
beginning,  not  for  academic  calm,  but  for  turbulence  and 
vitality;  for  they  were  not  universities  of  science,  they  were 
universities  of  persons.  The  differences  of  scholastic  rank 
were  not  very  sharply  defined.  In  early  days,  whenever 
the  university  body  was  formally  addressed  by  Pope  or 
Emperor,  the  students  were  named  in  the  same  sentence  as 
the  masters. 

It  is  unnecessary  to  recall  here  the  changes  in  condition 
which  have  separated  the  student  class  sharply  from  the 
teaching  body  and  divorced  it  almost  entirely  from  govern- 
mental functions.  What  is  significant  for  the  purpose  of 
this  article  is  an  apparent  disposition  in  many  quarters  to 
recede  from  the  extreme  position  of  entire  exclusion  of  the 
student  body  and  a  tendency  to  move  in  the  other  direction. 
That  tendency  may  become  very  marked  and  lead  to  a  very 
radical  change  of  policy  in  the  government  of  colleges,  a 
change  so  radical  as  to  be  revolutionary  in  its  effect.  It 
is  certain  that  the  government  of  colleges,  like  that  of  states, 
must  from  time  to  time  undergo  marked  modifications  if 
it  is  to  remain  vitally  representative  of,  and  harmonious 
with,  the  growing  and  changing  life  of  the  college.  In  healthy 


32  A  WILLIAMS  ANTHOLOGY 

institutional  life  there  is  free  play  and  interaction  of  all  the 
forces  that  go  to  make  up  the  organic  life,  and  a  certain 
flexibility  is  involved  in  all  growth.  The  student  community, 
is,  after  all,  in  most  institutions  the  prime  object  of  inter- 
est. A  few  foundations  exist  for  the  pursuit  of  knowledge 
for  its  own  sake,  instruction  being  incidental;  in  most  insti- 
tutions, however,  instruction  is  the  foremost  and  absorbing 
function,  and  the  student's  welfare  is,  therefore,  the  con- 
trolling factor.  In  western  colleges,  where  the  edge  of  hun- 
ger for  knowledge  has  not  yet  been  dulled  by  opportunity, 
it  is  not  an  unknown  thing  for  a  committee  of  students  to 
wait  on  a  president  or  chancellor  and  announce  the  failure 
of  some  professor  to  prepare  himself  for  recitations  by  fresh 
study  of  his  subject.  It  would  be  well  if  students  in  eastern 
colleges  would  sometimes  put  on  a  similar  boldness;  they 
would  help  heads  of  colleges  out  of  very  trying  difficulties 
with  well-meaning  but  incompetent  or  indolent  professors. 
Undergraduate  popularity  is  often  illusive  and  unstable, 
but  undergraduate  perception  of  incompetency  is  often 
very  keen  and  discriminating. 

But  whether  admitted  to,  or  excluded  from  the  government 
of  the  college,  the  student  community  plays  a  part  not  al- 
ways recognized  in  its  educational  influence  and  work,  and 
many  men  receive  more  influential  impressions  from  the 
atmosphere  in  which  they  live  and  the  men  with  whom  they 
associate  during  their  college  career  than  from  their  in- 
structors. Nothing  is  so  pervasive  as  an  atmospheric  in- 
fluence, and,  in  its  way,  nothing  is  so  important.  It  is  sig- 
nificant that  foreign  students  rarely  speak  of  Oxford  without 
commenting  on  its  atmosphere;  something  in  the  air  of  the 
old  town  which,  although  intangible  in  its  operation,  is  a  pos- 
itive factor  in  the  educational  result.  Specific  courses  of  in- 
struction are  less  numerous  than  in  many  other  places,  and 
such  instruction  as  is  offered  is  often  defective  in  methods 


HAMILTON  WRIGHT  MABIE  33 

and  spirit;  but  the  life  of  the  place  is  adjusted  to  intellectual 
work;  the  library  facilities  are  great,  the  traditions  which 
seem  to  be  part  of  the  very  structure  of  the  colleges  are 
liberalizing  and  make  for  generous  culture.  In  such  an  air 
it  is  easy  to  study  by  one's  own  impetus  and  to  develop  in 
ourselves  the  passion  for  perfection.  Culture  is  so  different 
from  training  or  favoring  the  acquirement  of  knowledge 
that  it  is  so  often  totally  lacking  in  men  who  have  carried 
both  processes  to  great  length;  it  is  indeed  rarely  conveyed, 
though  it  may  be  greatly  aided,  by  definite  instruction.  It 
cannot  be  said  of  the  great  mass  of  college  graduates  that 
they  are  men  of  culture.  Culture  comes,  in  a  sense,  by  indi- 
rection, a  man  absorbs  it  and  furnishes  the  conditions  for 
its  growth,  but  he  cannot  receive  it  directly  from  his  teach- 
ers. There  are,  in  every  college,  teachers,  who  stimulate 
culture  in  students  not  so  much  by  reason  of  their  scholar- 
ship as  by  reason  of  their  attitude  toward  what  they  know. 
For  culture  is  always  a  personal  quality;  a  ripeness  which 
comes  from  the  generous  enrichment  of  a  man's  nature  by 
contact  with  the  best  things.  In  certain  atmospheres  men 
ripen,  as  in  certain  others  they  remain  hard  and  unaf- 
fected. 

The  atmospheric  quality  of  a  college  is  determined  largely 
by  the  character  and  traditions  of  undergraduate  life.  If 
that  life  has  generous  ideals,  sound  impulses,  and  traditions 
which  appeal  to  the  imagination,  the  atmosphere  will  do 
as  much  for  many  men  as  the  formal  instruction  they  re- 
ceive. It  will  inspire  self-respect,  firm  ambitions,  and  gen- 
eral dignity  and  nobleness  of  nature.  Men  will  be  drawn  to- 
gether by  the  sympathy  of  aspiration,  rather  than  by  mere 
congeniality  of  habit,  and  their  daily  association  will  have 
an  educational  influence  of  the  most  lasting  kind.  It  is  this 
association  which  often  leaves  its  mark  on  men  who  have 
failed  to  make  right  use  of  the  opportunities  for  specific  in- 


34  A  WILLIAMS  ANTHOLOGY 

struction  which  surround  them.  A  college  education  is 
complete,  so  far  as  any  provisional  education  is  complete, 
only  when  the  student  receives  the  strong  impress  of  both 
teachers  and  associates;  when  instruction  is  competent  and 
vital,  and  undergraduate  life  is  wholesome,  generous,  and 
aspiring. 

It  is  a  significant  fact  that  when  a  group  of  men  develop 
creative  gifts  in  later  life  it  will  generally  be  found  that  their 
undergraduate  life  together  discovered  strong  sympathetic 
aspirations  which  bound  them  together  and  gave  their 
intercourse  a  very  stimulating  quality.  The  action  and  re- 
action upon  each  other  of  a  group  of  young  men  of  generous 
aims  are  peculiarly  delicate  and  influential,  affecting  the 
very  sources  of  individual  strength  and  impulse. 

Such  influences  are  intermittent  and  irregular;  it  would 
be  a  great  gain  if  they  could  become  continuous  and,  in  a 
flexible  sense,  organic.  Student  life  has  been,  at  times, 
highly  organized  and  penetrated  by  intellectual  impulses. 
Colleges  differ  greatly  in  this  respect,  but  in  American  in- 
stitutions the  student  life  of  to-day  does  not  anywhere  near 
realize  its  rich  possibilities.  Its  interest  in  athletics  is  so 
great  that  in  this  single  field  it  may  be  said  to  be  fairly  well 
organized  and  fairly  effective  in  securing  the  end  for  which 
it  works;  but  in  no  other  field  is  a  similar  activity  discover- 
able, unless  it  be  in  that  of  journalism.  One  of  the  most 
interesting  features  of  the  intellectual  and  moral  revival 
now  going  on  in  France  is  the  notable  change  that  has  come 
over  student  life,  a  change  shown  in  a  revival  of  song,  of 
old  student  customs,  of  solidarity  of  feeling,  and  of  a  gen- 
erous enthusiasm  for  the  common  traditions  and  views. 
May  not  American  students  learn  something  from  this 
contemporary  illustration  of  the  possibilities  of  organized 
student  life  ? 

Literary  Monthly,  1893. 


SELF-MADE  MEN 

I  — B.  PRATT 
ALFRED  C.  CHAPIN  '69 

THERE  are  themes  which  no  man  can  cope  with.  There 
are  times  when  those  ordinarily  confident  shrink  back  at 
the  thought  of  grappling  with  the  mighty  issues  that  lie 
before  them.  There  are  minds  of  a  structure  so  singularly 
complex  and  unique,  that  one  leaves  the  study  of  them  im- 
pressed only  with  a  deep,  abiding  sense  of  his  inability  to 
fathom  them.  We  have  in  our  midst  one  such,  the  penetra- 
tion of  whose  manifestations  and  phenomena  is  well  calcu- 
lated to  baffle  the  most  zealous  investigator.  Reared  among 
the  rugged  hill-sides  and  verdant  vales  of  Williamstown, 
his  character  and  oratory  bear  the  evident  impress  of  his 
nurturing.  If  to  Elihu  Burritt  belongs  the  title  of  "The 
Learned  Blacksmith, "not  less  to  William  Pratt  is  due  that 
of  "The  Eloquent  Wood-sawyer."  Though  he  cannot,  like 
Elihu,  claim  a  knowledge  of  eight  languages,  he  can  at 
least  use  the  one  of  which  he  is  master,  in  a  manner  at  once 
astounding  and  gratifying.  No  son  of  Williams  needs  to  be 
told  who  he  is;  yet  for  the  benefit  of  those  unacquainted  with 
his  genius  and  oratorical  ability,  we  will  endeavor  briefly 
to  sketch  his  early  career  before  enlarging  upon  the  grander 
triumphs  of  his  later  years. 

The  subject  of  the  present  article  was  born  not  far  from 
the  year  1810.  Whether  or  no  any  comet  or  other  unusual 
heavenly  phenomenon  heralded  his  entrance  upon  the  scenes 
of  earth,  is  not  recorded.  If,  however,  the  astronomical  ap- 
pearances which  are  said  to  accompany  the  birth  of  the 
mighty  ones  of  the  sons  of  earth  are  gauged  with  any  degree 

35 


36  A  WILLIAMS  ANTHOLOGY 

of  fairness,  there  should  have  been  at  least  six  large  comets 
and  any  number  of  meteors  distinctly  visible.  His  early  life 
glided  by  gently  as  the  placid  Hoosick,  by  which  he  frolicked. 
Several  desperate  attempts  were  made  by  various  misguided 
individuals  to  educate  him.  From  all  these,  however,  he 
escaped  unscathed,  with  the  wings  of  his  genius  unfettered. 
At  what  precise  period  he  began  to  exhibit  symptoms  of 
that  highly  original  and  forcible  eloquence  which  he  now 
possesses,  we  are  unable  to  state.  We  presume  that  his  first 
efforts  were  co-existent  with  the  commencement  of  his  career 
as  a  wood-sawyer.  Certainly,  at  present,  he  is  rarely  filled 
with  the  divine  afflatus  except  when  plying  his  saw.  He 
is  unlike  Shakespeare,  as  he  often  repeats.  One  utterance 
—  "Ottah" —  the  coinage  of  his  own  brain,  seems  to  be 
the  attempt  of  his  daring  and  unschooled  genius  to  strike 
out  not  only  into  new  lines  of  thought,  but  even  to  find  a 
mystic  mode  of  expression.  This  term  is  evidently  a  portion 
of  a  language  wholly  differing  from  our  own.  It  is  at  once 
a  noun,  adjective,  and  verb,  and,  in  the  full  flood  of  his  elo- 
quence, it  changes  from  the  one  to  the  other  with  astound- 
ing rapidity. 

The  extreme  versatility  of  his  genius  renders  it  peculiarly 
difficult  to  give  any  adequate  idea  of  his  oratory.  He  is 
equally  bold  in  the  expression  of  his  sentiments  on  any  sub- 
ject. Perhaps  for  convenience  in  consideration  we  may 
roughly  divide  his  oratory  into  wood-pile  and  conversa- 
tional eloquence. 

Specimens  of  his  genuine  wood-pile  eloquence,  though 
by  no  means  uncommon,  are  yet  not  easily  accessible  to  the 
biographical  compiler.  Very  few  of  his  sayings  have  ever 
found  their  way  into  print,  and  when  thus  presented  they 
are  of  necessity  shorn  of  much  of  their  strength,  and  de- 
prived of  the  impressiveness  which  they  derive  from  the 
orator's  gesticulation  and  delivery.  We  will,  however,  en- 


ALFRED  C.  CHAPIN  37 

deavor  to  present  our  readers  with  a  few,  selected  at  random, 
from  discourses  on  various  occasions  and  subjects. 

It  is  morning.  A  group  of  students,  just  before  going 
into  recitation,  cluster  around  Bill  in  the  hope  of  getting  a 
speech  from  him.  He  remains  deaf  to  their  entreaties  till  the 
bell  sounds,  when  with  uplifted  hand  and  glaring  eye  he  thus 
addresses  them,  in  a  voice  audible  for  about  half  a  mile. 

"Go  in  and  take  your  secretary,  persecuting  yourself 
with  the  dandelions  and  robes  of  righteousness.  All  the  life, 
all  the  music,  and  the  blood  and  electricity  rolling  over 
the  mountains  with  the  elements  of  pietude  spread  all 
over  the  fundament.  Ottah!  !  R-R-R-Rose  Ottah!  Rack- 
a-tack." 

As  might  be  surmised  from  a  perusal  of  this  effort,  his 
peroration  is  rarely  in  keeping  with  the  main  portion  of  his 
oration.  In  fact,  the  close  of  all  his  speeches  may  be  said 
to  be  very  similar,  being  invariably  "Ottah,"  or  some  varia- 
tion of  it. 

Occasionally  the  exuberance  of  his  genius  leads  him  into 
the  error  of  crowding  together  metaphors  to  the  detriment 
of  perspicuity.  When,  for  example,  he  says: 

"The  waters  of  heaven  descending  on  the  breast-bones 
of  the  women ;  and  the  youthful  Moses,  sitting  on  the  back- 
bone of  eternity,  sucking  the  pap  of  time,"  we  feel  that  there 
is  a  redundancy  in  the  expression. 

Some  specimens  of  his  remarkable  verbal  and  figurative 
power  in  conversation  are  forcible  in  the  extreme.  It  is 
said,  with  what  truth  we  know  not,  that  on  one  occasion 
the  venerable  head  of  this  institution  ventured  to  "tackle" 
him  in  a  religious  argument.  Bill,  after  listening  with  a  defer- 
ence which  was  evidently  a  tribute  of  respect  to  the  Doc- 
tor's position  rather  than  an  acknowledgment  of  the 
cogency  of  his  reasoning,  settled  the  question  by  an  inter- 
rogatory: "Dr.  Hopkins,  do  you  suppose  I'm  goin*  to 


38  A  WILLIAMS  ANTHOLOGY 

believe  that  when  I  die  I'll  go  up  and  sit  on  one  of  those 
clouds  with  my  legs  hangin'  over?" 

We  infer  from  the  above  that  his  religious  belief  is  some- 
what vague. 

Soon  after  the  marriage  of  Charles,  Bill's  son,  the  heir 
apparent  of  the  Pratt  estates,  Bill  was  asked  how  Charles' 
wife  was  getting  along,  whereupon  he  was  pleased  to  remark 
that  he  believed  she  was  "under  conviction."  Since  then 
the  conviction  has  become  a  certainty,  and  Bill  is  a  grand- 
father. Commenting  on  the  appearance  of  his  grandchild, 
he  has  been  heard  to  say:  "She's  a  pretty  child.  I  say  she 
looks  like  Charles.  Charles  says  she  looks  like  me." 

There  are  few  scenes  that  abide  longer  in  the  student's 
recollection  than  those  in  which  Bill  is  the  central  figure. 
It  not  infrequently  happens  that,  when  a  number  of  lovers 
of  fun  are  gathered  around  him  as  he  vigorously  brandishes 
axe  or  saw,  one  of  them,  willing,  for  the  sake  of  drawing  him 
out,  to  make  a  martyr  of  himself  for  the  public  good,  ad- 
dresses him.  On  such  occasions  a  conversation,  something 
as  follows,  occurs : 

Student  —  "Bill,  what  do  you  think  of  the  constitution- 
ality of  the  configuration,  esthetically  considered?" 

No  reply  is  elicited  from  Bill,  but  a  scornful  "Ottah,"  as 
he  puts  on  a  new  stick  and  continues  his  work. 

Student,  (not  discouraged)  —  "Really,  Bill,  I  should  like 
your  opinion  on  that  point." 

Bill,  (having  finished  his  stick)  —  "You  ain't  no  kind  of 
a  man.  You  hain't  got  no  elements,  no  justice  of  earth.  When 
I  see  these  young  men  and  the  monument  of  liberty  im- 
ported from  Long  Island  for  the  benefit  of  the  rising  genera- 
tion, Ottah!  Rolling  Ottah!  !  Rang  Dang!  Du  Dah!  !  !" 

Of  course  a  rebuke  so  scathing  and  sudden  as  this,  never 
fails  to  annihilate  its  object.  Being  assured  by  the  raptu- 
rous applause  which  ever  succeeds  his  efforts,  that  he  has 


ALFRED  C.   CHAPIN  39 

made  a  good  hit,  Bill  suddenly  becomes  as  impenetrable  as 
Gibraltar,  and  saws  vigorously. 

If,  at  a  time  like  this,  "the  Professor,"  alias  "Niobe," 
having  snatched  a  few  moments  from  his  professional  per- 
ambulations in  search  of  "Coffee,"  steps  forward,  signalizing 
his  debut  with  the  interrogatory:  "Do  ye  think  I'm  a  com- 
mon laborin'  man?  "  naught  is  wanting  to  complete  the  stu- 
dent's bliss. 

"The  Professor"  is  by  no  means  as  varied  in  his  accom- 
plishments as  Bill,  his  only  quotable  utterances  being  the 
one  already  given  and  another,  supposed  to  be  severely  sar- 
castic: "How  lang  has  he  been  so  ?"  He,  however,  has,  in 
the  recesses  of  his  brain,  a  dim  idea  that  Bill  is  weak,  viewed 
from  an  intellectual  standpoint,  while  Bill  has  an  equally 
indistinct  belief  that  "the  Professor"  has  very  little  furni- 
ture in  his  upper  story.  How  far  either  of  them  is  wrong 
our  space  does  not  permit  us  to  say.  Both  have  a  supreme 
contempt  for  students,  regarding  them  as  effeminate  cum- 
berers  of  the  ground.  In  the  presence  of  Bill,  "the  Pro- 
fessor" does  not  appear  to  advantage.  Being  entirely  un- 
able to  compete  with  him  in  a  war  of  words,  he  is  usually 
forced  to  betake  himself  to  dancing;  which,  compared  with 
oratory,  is  frivolous. 

Occasionally  the  adversities  of  life  seem  to  press  upon 
Bill  with  peculiar  force,  rendering  him  extremely  dejected. 
At  such  times,  though  his  flow  of  language  does  not  forsake 
him,  he  is  without  that  cheerful  aspect  and  spontaneous 
expression  ordinarily  so  characteristic.  No  longer  does  he 
cause  the  campus  to  ring  with  his  hearty  vociferation,  but 
he  grumbles  very  like  an  ordinary  mortal  : 

"I  tell  yer  now  I  don't  believe  no  man  ever  got  rich 
sawin'  wood.  I  tell  yer  it 's  hard  work  to  saw  wood  all  day 
and  car'  it  up  two  pa'r  stairs  on  yer  back.  I've  sawed  wood 
mor  'n  thirty  years.  You  ask  Mist'r  Tatlock,  if  yer  don't 


40  A  WILLIAMS  ANTHOLOGY 

believe  it.  Mist'r  Tatlock's  nice  man.  There  ain't  no 
temptations  about  him.  I  sawed  last  night  till  twel'  o'clock, 
an'  it's  hard  work.  Say,  that  feller  up  in  that  room  gin 
eight  dollars  for  that  cord  o'  wood,  an'  it  ain't  good  for 
nothin'.  It's  all  full  o'  the  Ottahs  in  the  lucination  of  the 
veins." 

In  the  fall,  Bill,  for  a  season,  abandons  wood-sawing  for 
the  lighter  and  more  refined  occupation  of  stove-blacking. 
While  engaged  in  this  profession  he  never  fails  to  assert 
his  profound  and  lasting  conviction  that,  like  sawing,  it  does 
not  offer  a  broad  and  easy  road  to  opulence.  His  execution 
of  whatever  work  is  given  him  in  this  line  is  at  once  artistic 
and  masterly,  showing  that  excellence  in  oratory  is  not  in- 
compatible with  an  aptitude  for  the  fine  arts.  His  outfit  is 
eminently  complete  and  choice.  In  order  that  he  may  fail 
in  no  portion  of  his  work,  he  usually  carries  with  him  a  stock 
consisting  of: 

1.  About  35  brooms,  carried  in  a  large  sack.    These  are 
useful  in  putting  on  the  finishing  touches,  and  ensuring  an 
unapproachable  lustre. 

2 .  Brushes  of  various  kinds,  comprising  shoe-brushes,  hat- 
brushes,  clothes-brushes,  hair-brushes,  tooth-brushes,  nail- 
brushes, shaving-brushes,  and  sometimes,  a  stove-brush. 
These  are  useful  in  many  respects,  the  shoe-brushes  and  hair- 
brushes being  instrumental  in  doing  the  heavy  and  plain 
work,  while  the  shaving-brushes  and  tooth-brushes  are  ex- 
tremely handy  in  doing  justice  to  the  filagree  work  and  or- 
namental portion. 

3.  A  platform,  or  dais,  on  which  to  place  the  stove. 

4.  A  stick,  curiously  carved,  to  beat  out  of  pipes. 

5.  Cloths,  of  various  sizes  and  patterns,  to  wipe  the 
poker  and  the  legs  of  the  stove. 

6.  Oil-cloths,  for  emergencies. 

7.  One  large  bottle  or  jug  with  a  stick  in  it,  and  two 


ALFRED  C.  CHAPIN  41 

smaller  ones,  all  filled  with  mysterious  decoctions  whose 
composition  and  properties  are  known  to  Bill  alone. 

8.  A  sponge. 

9.  Small  boxes  containing  a  dingy  powder. 

10.  A  wheel-barrow,  on  which  Bill  vainly  attempts  to 
carry  the  rest  of  his  goods. 

We  have  been  thus  minute  in  describing  his  equipment, 
knowing  him  to  be  at  the  head  of  his  profession,  and  hoping 
that  any  youth  aspiring  to  celebrity  in  it,  who  may  chance 
upon  these  pages,  will  profit  therefrom.  We  regret  to  be 
obliged  to  state  that  there  are  some  so  utterly  out  of  sym- 
pathy with  the  cause  of  art,  as  to  assert  that  the  greater 
portion  of  Bill's  utensils  are  useless;  and  that  by  much  put- 
tering he  loses  time  without  improving  his  work.  These 
persons  we  are  inclined  to  class  among  those  zealous  but 
unthinking  lovers  of  simplicity,  whose  misdirected  reforma- 
tory efforts  in  other  departments  of  life  are  so  well  known. 
As  might  be  expected,  Bill  treats  these  sacrilegious  innova- 
tors with  the  contempt  they  so  justly  merit.  Were  an  officious 
stranger  to  try  to  convince  an  artist  that  one  color  would 
answer  all  his  purposes  as  well  as  a  greater  number,  would 
the  suggestion  of  the  untutored  interloper  cause  the  artist 
to  waver  in  the  sternness  of  his  faith?  And  shall  the  subject 
of  this  sketch  revolutionize  his  mode  of  stove-blacking  at 
the  promptings  of  an  untaught  spectator  ? 

It  would  be  by  no  means  surprising  if  such  nicety  of  exe- 
cution as  that  to  which  we  have  alluded  tended  to  draw  his 
attention  from  rhetorical  themes.  Yet,  spite  of  this  ap- 
parently necessary  result,  some  of  his  grandest  and  most 
startling  flights  of  oratory  have  had  their  inspiration  from 
incidents  connected  with  stove-nigrification.  Bill  has,  as  it 
were,  soared  on  the  legs  of  the  stove,  like  Perseus  on  Mer- 
cury's sandals,  to  unexplored  realms  of  space  and  thought. 
At  such  moments  the  stove-pipe  becomes  to  him  a  magic 


42  A  WILLIAMS  ANTHOLOGY 

telescope,  through  which  he  peers  far  into  the  unfathomable 
depths. 

There  are  times  when,  through  the  influence  of  passion, 
he  for  a  little  time  lays  aside  his  oratorical  embellishments. 
We  remember  one  such  occasion.  He  had  just  finished  saw- 
ing a  pile  of  wood,  when  a  student,  who  was  looking  from  a 
window,  told  him  there  was  one  stick  which  he  had  not 
sawed,  and  taunted  him  with  intending  to  purloin  it.  In- 
stantly his  countenance  became  livid  with  rage,  his  lips 
separated,  showing  a  fine  dental  formation,  and  he  exclaimed 
in  pure  Anglo-Saxon :  — 

"You're  a  liar.  You  lie." 

The  student,  perceiving  from  Bill's  descent  to  the  ver- 
nacular of  common  men  that  his  ire  was  roused,  abjectly 
and  unqualifiedly  apologized. 

"Well,"  said  the  orator,  threateningly,  "you'd  better 
take  that  back.  I  Ve  sawed  wood  more  'n  thirty  year,  an' 
no  man  ever  'cused  me  o'  stealin'. "  Then  gradually  be- 
coming good-natured,  he  added,  "Crucifixin'  yourself  in 
the  observatories  of  life  in  the  gray  dawn  over  your  jewelry. 
No  sir,  I  never  stole  nothin'.  You  do.  You  'd  steal  if  you 
wan't  afraid  to.  Ottah!" 

We  regret  to  be  obliged  to  chronicle  one  incident  that 
would  seem  to  indicate  something  of  malevolence.  The  im- 
partial historian,  however,  must  not  shrink  from  the  full 
performance  of  his  duty. 

Another  of  the  notables  of  this  region,  of  sable  lineage, 
called,  on  account  of  a  peculiar  propensity  to  split  two-inch 
planks  with  his  head,  "Abe  Bunter,"  not  long  since  hon- 
ored the  students  of  this  institution  with  a  series  of  calls  for 
the  purpose  of  soliciting  money  to  purchase  for  himself  a 
bovine,  to  replace  one  providentially  taken  from  him.  His 
success  may  be  inferred  from  a  remark  let  fall  by  Bill,  accom- 
panied by  a  demoniac  chuckle: 


ALFRED  C.  CHAPIN  43 

"Say,  old  Abe  Bunter's  round  with  an  inscription,  an' 
he  hain't  got  a  cent." 

Like  all  great  men,  Bill  has  his  eccentricities.  Fresh  meat, 
and,  indeed,  meat  of  any  kind  except  pork,  he  abominates. 
Beefsteak,  especially,  is  an  object  of  indescribable  aversion. 
Untold  wealth  would  not  suffice  to  induce  him  to  partake 
of  it.  This  repugnance  is  due  partly  to  a  fear  of  being  choked 
with  bones,  and  partly  to  a  scorn  of  its  tenderness.  The 
physical  weaknesses  of  students  he  attributes  entirely  to 
their  consuming  so  much  of  it.  Viewed  from  his  standpoint, 
perhaps  students  are  effeminate,  for  he  possesses  the  strength 
of  brass,  and  an  amount  of  endurance  astonishing  to  con- 
template. 

His  ordinary  working-hours  are  from  six  in  the  morning 
till  six  at  night;  but,  when  business  presses,  he  rises,  like 
the  virtuous  woman,  while  it  is  yet  night,  and  brings  down 
on  his  devoted  head  the  anathemas  of  various  students  by 
commencing  his  day's  sawing  under  their  windows  at  the 
moderately  early  hour  of  one  A.  M.  He  is  a  living  proof  of 
the  utter  and  irreclaimable  falsity  of  the  idiotic  doggerel : 

"Early  to  bed,  and  early  to  rise, 
Makes  a  man  healthy,  wealthy,  and  wise." 

Last  summer,  however,  during  the  heated  term,  he  was 
obliged  to  come  down  to  the  limit  of  ordinary  mortals,  as 
he  feared  that  the  influence  of  the  sun's  rays  would  bring 
about  a  degeneration  of  the  Ottah  and  Verdigres  in  the 
brain,  and  result  in  an  explosion  of  the  blood-veins.  By 
careful  sanitary  precautions  he  was  enabled  to  avoid  this 
fearful  malady  and  preserve  his  physical  well-being. 

He  can,  and  will,  for  the  comparatively  slight  sum  of 
twenty-five  cents,  hold  his  breath  for  five  minutes.  He,  him- 
self, asserts  that  he  can  do  it  for  seven  minutes,  but  that  the 
doctor  advised  him  against  doing  so,  as  it  might  produce  a 
fusion  of  the  Ottahs. 


44  A  WILLIAMS  ANTHOLOGY 

His  costume  is  at  once  serviceable  and  unique.  It  usually 
consists  of  from  two  to  five  shirts,  and  three  pairs  of  pan- 
taloons. He  never  was  known  to  wear  the  same  hat  or  pair 
of  boots  all  day.  Occasionally  he  dons  a  vest,  and,  at  rare 
times,  a  coat.  In  stature  he  is  below  the  medium  height; 
nevertheless,  his  appearance  is  eminently  imposing  and 
prepossessing.  His  countenance  is  rather  oblong,  and  wears 
an  expression  that  is  a  singular  mixture  of  profound  gravity 
and  fearful  earnestness.  His  eyes  resemble  those  of  some 
species  of  fish,  and  are  set  under  curiously  wrinkled  brows 
that  nearly  conceal  them.  .  .  .  Such  is  Bill  Pratt,  honest, 
cheerful,  and  industrious,  the  maligner  of  no  man.  His 
sturdy  figure  long  holds  a  place  in  the  memory  of  every  stu- 
dent; his  photograph  decorates  every  student's  album. 
Without  him  our  college  would  be  incomplete.  Esteemed 
by  all  for  his  unfailing  integrity  and  industry,  laughed  at 
by  all  for  his  oddities,  he  remains  ever  the  same.  We  trust 
that  the  day  is  far  distant  when  he  will  be  among  us  no  more, 
and  when  the  college  walls  shall  cease  to  echo  his  chaotic 
and  ungovernable  eloquence. 

Quarterly,  1869. 


ATTIS 

ANON. 

FAIR  Phrygian  Attis,  loved  of  Cybele, 

Fired  with  the  service  of  her  awful  shrine, 

Had  wandered  far  before  his  restless  soul 

Along  the  gleaming  sand-line  of  the  beach. 

At  last  he  came  to  a  deep  shaded  nook, 

Where  giant  trees  thick  wreathed  with  twisting  vines 

Clomb  the  steep  hills  on  every  side  but  one, 

And  rimmed  the  sky  with  a  green  fringe  of  leaves. 

But  toward  the  south  wide  open  to  the  shore 
It  seemed  a  lap,  wherein  the  sun  and  sea 
Together  lay  warm  in  each  other's  smiles. 
Down  the  steep  sides  a  little  babbling  brook 
Leapt  with  low  laughter,  fleeing  from  itself, 
Then,  wid'ning  out  into  a  lucid  pool, 
Crept  slowly  seaward  through  low  banks  of  fern. 
Here,  stretching  his  bare  limbs  upon  the  sward, 
He  watched  the  water  falling  down  the  rocks. 

His  jetty  hair,  curled  loosely  on  his  head, 
Fell  down  upon  his  shoulders  glistening  white, 
The  rounded  symmetry  of  breast  and  limb, 
And  the  rich  color  of  his  sensuous  lips 
Almost  belied  the  down  upon  his  cheek. 
No  uncouth  garments  hid  his  perfect  form, 
Nor  marred  its  grace,  but,  naked  like  the  gods, 
The  ruddy  sunlight  bathed  him  in  its  glow. 
45 


46  A  WILLIAMS  ANTHOLOGY 

So,  as  the  day  sank  down  the  golden  west, 
And  the  long  index  shadows  toward  the  east 
Seemed  telling  of  the  morn  that  was  to  rise, 
A  band  of  nymphs  came  past  him  where  he  lay 
Half-hidden  in  the  grass,  and  to  the  pool 
Rushed  with  sweet  rivalry  and  little  screams 
To  feel  the  water  cold  around  their  limbs. 
They  saw  him  not,  nor  dreamed  that  mortal  eyes 
In  that  lone  glen  were  looking  on  their  play. 

Soon  they  passed  on,  save  one  who  near  the  bank 
Had  lain  to  rest  till  sleep  stole  eyes  and  ears. 
Then  Attis  rose  and  would  have  sought  the  shrine 
But  when  he  saw  the  sleeper  he  stood  still. 
He  was  too  young  to  know  the  power  of  love 
When  mighty  Cybele  from  his  far  home  — 
His  home,  which  lay  beyond  the  heaving  sea, 
And  which  to  think  of  even  yet  would  bring 
The  bitter  tears  into  his  dark-lashed  eyes,  — 
Had  brought  him  as  a  priest  into  her  fane, 
And  bound  him  by  an  oath  of  dreaded  wrath 

To  be  hers  only,  hers  forevermore. 

i 

But  years  had  passed  since  then,  he  was  a  man, 
And  man's  strong  passion  drove  into  his  cheek 
The  ruby  symbol  of  its  first  felt  power, 
As  leaning  o'er  he  gazed  upon  the  nymph. 
She  moved  a  little  under  the  hot  glance 
That  burned  from  Attis'  eyes  upon  her  face, 
And  seemed  about  to  wake.  Quick  he  drew  back, 
Walking  away  a  few  steps  towards  the  beach, 
Then  turned  to  take  one  last  look  ere  he  went; 
She  had  not  woke,  her  head  lay  on  her  arms, 
And  her  face  looking  toward  him  seemed  to  smile. 


ANON.  47 

He  could  not  go,  he  dared  not  longer  stay, 

But  stood  and  wished,  and  feared,  and  let  his  wish 

Conquer  his  fear;  returning  step  by  step 

Again  he  bent  above  her.  Then,  at  last, 

The  wrath  of  scorner  Cybele  forgot, 

He  thought  of  nothing  but  his  newfelt  love. 

Sudden  she  raised  the  lids,  and  her  full  eyes 
Looked  straight  upon  him.  Attis  laid  his  hand 
Upon  her  arm  to  stay  the  flight  he  feared, 
Saying,  "Fear  not,  't  is  only  Attis,  I, 
And  't  is  my  love  that  holds  me  here  by  thee." 

She  smiled  back  on  him  and  her  hand  in  his 
Thrilled  with  a  touch  that  maddened  through  his  veins; 
He  bent  down  over  her  and  all  his  soul 
Slid  through  his  lips  in  one  long  burning  kiss 
Which  lovers  only  know. 

Lo,  Cybele, 

Her  chariot,  lion-drawn,  grinding  the  sands, 
Stood  awfully  before  them.  Not  a  word 
Came  from  her  lips,  but  her  great  angry  eyes 
Dark  with  the  wrath  and  vengeance  of  the  gods 
Gloomed  forth  a  hate  no  mortal  could  endure; 
Pale  Attis  looked  in  them  but  once,  and  then 
In  frenzied  madness  fled  along  the  shore. 
Quarterly,  1871. 


COLLEGE  FRIENDSHIPS 

CHARLES  CUTHBERT  HALL  '72 » 

MY  other  self,  my  bosom  friend, 
Thy  faithful  arm  in  mine  enwinding, 
Let  us  fare  forth  amid  the  trees, 
Each  in  the  other  comfort  finding. 
For  though  our  boyhood  be  so  near, 
Yet  have  we  tasted  grief  and  fear. 

I  feel  upon  my  heart  the  weight 
Of  things  unknown,  the  dread  of  living, 
And  thou,  dear  friend,  canst  strengthen  me 
By  thy  heart's  wondrous  gift  of  giving; 

So,  when  life's  strangeness  frighteneth  me, 

In  perfect  trust  I  turn  to  thee. 

Thou  dost  not  scorn  my  foolish  fear, 
Nor  e'er  upbraid  my  dreamy  thinking; 
Thou  dost  not  brand  me  with  contempt 
Because  of  all  my  frequent  shrinking. 
Thou  art  a  tower  of  strength  to  me, 
So  let  me  walk  awhile  with  thee. 

Not  all  our  hours  are  hours  of  dread: 
We  know  the  hours  of  splendid  hoping; 
When  life 's  ongoing  ways  shine  clear, 
And  vision  takes  the  place  of  groping; 
In  those  Great  Hours  I  seek  for  thee 
To  walk  amid  the  trees  with  me. 

1  Died  1908. 
48 


CHARLES  CUTHBERT  HALL       49 

How  hath  God  made  our  lives  as  one, 
Knitting  our  fortunes  up  together 
In  comradeship  that  welcometh 
The  clearing  or  the  lowering  weather  — 

The  joy  or  pain  —  heart  answering  heart! 

Are  we  not  friends  till  Death  us  part? 

Then  mount  with  me  the  rugged  hill 
And  let  our  thoughts  go  seaward  soaring, 
Until  in  fancy's  ear  there  sound 
The  chime  of  surf,  the  tempest's  roaring; 

And,  by  the  sun-glint  on  the  sea, 

We  trace  the  years  that  are  to  be. 

My  other  self,  why  bound  by  death 
The  compass  of  our  friendship's  reaching? 
Why  doubt  the  promptings  of  our  hearts, 
Or  falsify  our  spirits'  teaching? 

Must  not  the  friends  beneath  the  sod 
Still  walk  amid  the  trees  of  God? 
1903. 
Literary  Monthly,  1909. 


LORRAINE  — 1 870 

ANON. 


SWEETLY  the  June-time  twilights  wane 
Over  the  hills  of  fair  Lorraine, 

Sweetly  the  mellow  moonbeams  fall 

O  'er  rose- wreathed  cottage  and  ivied  wall. 

But  never  dawned  a  brighter  eve, 
Than  the  holy  night  of  St.  Genevieve. 

And  never  moonlight  fairer  fell, 
Over  the  banks  of  the  blue  Moselle. 

Richly  the  silver  splendor  shines, 
Spangles  with  sheen  the  clustered  vines, 

And  rests,  in  benediction  fair, 

On  midnight  tresses  and  golden  hair. 

Golden  hair  and  midnight  tress, 
Mingle  in  tender  lovingness, 

While  the  evening  breezes  breathe  upon 
Marie  and  Jean,  —  and  their  hearts  are  one ! 

"  The  spell  of  silence  lifts  at  last, 
Marie,  the  saint's  sweet  day  is  past! 
So 


ANON.  51 

"  Her  vesper  chimes  have  died  away, 
Where  shall  we  be  on  Christmas  day?  " 

With  answering  throb  heart  thrilled  to  heart, 
Hand  met  hand  with  sudden  start. 

For  in  each  soul  shone  the  blessed  thought, 
The  vision  fair  of  a  little  cot, 

Nestled  beneath  the  lilac  spray, 
Waiting  the  blissful  bridal  day! 

Low  bowed  in  tearful  silence  there, 
Their  hearts  rose  up  in  solemn  prayer, 

And  still  the  mellow  lustre  fell 
Over  the  banks  of  the  blue  Moselle. 

And  still  the  moonlight  shone  upon 

Marie  and  Jean,  —  and  their  hearts  were  one ! 


ii 


Six  red  moons  have  rolled  away, 

And  the  sun  is  shining  on  Christmas  day. 

Over  the  hills  of  fair  Lorraine  — 
Heaps  of  ashes  and  rows  of  slain. 

Where  merrily  rang  the  light  guitar, 
The  angry  trump  of  the  red  hussar 

Flings  on  the  midnight's  shrinking  breath, 
The  direful  notes  of  the  Dance  of  Death! 


52  A  WILLIAMS  ANTHOLOGY 

i 

Underneath  the  clustered  vines, 
The  sentry's  glittering  saber  shines. 

Over  the  banks  of  the  blue  Moselle, 
Rain  of  rocket  and  storm  of  shell! 

Where  to-day  is  the  forehead  fair, 
Crowned  with  masses  of  midnight  hair? 

A  summer's  twilight  saw  him  fall, 
Dead  on  Verdun's  leaguered  wall. 

Where,  alas!  is  the  little  cot? 

Ask  the  blackened  walls  of  Gravelotte! 

Under  the  lilac  broods  alone 

A  maid  whose  heart  is  turned  to  stone. 

Who  sits,  with  folded  fingers,  dumb, 

And  meekly  prays  that  her  time  may  come! 

Yet  see!  the  Death-god's  baleful  star! 
And  War's  black  eagle  screams  afar! 

And  lo !  the  Christmas  shadows  wane 
Over  the  hills  of  sad  Lorraine. 
Quarterly,  1872. 


IN  ANSWER 

"S." 

AND  thou  didst  idly  dream, 

Or,  careless  of  thy  action,  think, 
To  cast  a  veil  o  'er  all  the  past 

And  weld  anew  the  .broken  link? 
Vain  thought  to  weave  anew  the  bond 

That  thou  didst  ruthless  sever; 
Know  friendship  often  turns  to  love, 

But  love  to  friendship  never. 

And  love  ne'er  dies  but  when  some  hand 

Too  careless  of  their  mimic  strife, 
Slow  cleaves  its  tendrils  from  their  hold, 

And  hurls  them  down  bereft  of  life. 
And  love  once  fled  can  ne'er  return, 

Nor  in  its  stead  can  friendship  stand, 
Nor  twine  again  the  tendrils  frail, 

Nor  e'er  unites  the  broken  band. 
Athenaeum,  1875. 


S3 


THE  MYSTIC 

"TROUBADOUR" 

AN  early  memory  of  my  earliest  youth. 

There  came  into  the  village  I  called  home 
A  traveller,  worn  and  faint.  His  garments  held 
The  alien  dust  of  many  a  weary  march; 
None  but  a  child  would  e  'er  have  thought  the  man 
A  thing  to  look  at  twice,  much  less  adore. 
But  unto  me,  child  that  I  was,  the  look 
In  his  large  pleading  eyes  seemed  so  divine, 
The  massive  brow  so  free  from  thought  of  earth, 
The  curves  of  his  sad  mouth  so  tremulous 
With  more  than  woman's  love  and  tenderness, 
And  in  each  word  and  act  such  gentleness, 
That  the  quaint  thought  possessed  and  held  my  mind, 
That  by  some  strange  hap  an  angel  soul, 
As  penance  for  some  small  offense  in  heaven 
Had  been  compelled  to  traverse  in  this  wise 
Our  darkened  world.  And  not  alone  his  look 
Which  made  his  rusty  vesture  fine,  nor  yet 
Alone  the  birds  which  fluttered  round  him  as 
He  were  a  friend,  led  to  the  same  belief  — 
But  he  with  other  men  had  naught  in  common. 
They  called  him  fool  and  idiot,  jibed  at  him 
And  at  his  rags,  and  mocked  his  lofty  air 
So  far  above  his  low  condition. 
And  yet  unto  their  jeers  he  never  word 
Replied,  nor  ever  seemed  to  know  that  they 
About  him  crawled;  but  fixing  his  great  eyes 
Upon  the  sunset  slopes,  while  mirrored  in 
His  face  was  seen  the  battle  in  his  heart 
54 


"TROUBADOUR"  55 

Of  hopes  and  fears,  he  rather  breathed  than  spoke 
Such  words  as  these,  except  that  his  had  soul: 

"At  length,  O  weary  heart,  it  seemeth  me 
The  rest  is  near.  The  air  seems  full  of  promise; 
My  eyes  are  fixed  on  what  they  cannot  see; 
My  ears  are  filled  with  whispers  not  quite  heard. 
All  things  seem  waiting  as  to  hear  good  news. 
The  western  breeze  hath  messages  for  me; 
The  western  hills  lean  down  and  beckon  me. 
It  must  be,  sure,  because,  it  must  be  so, 
That  just  beyond  those  hills,  O  heart,  there  doth 
Await  us  both  the  rest  we  long  have  sought." 
They  told  him  that  the  world  was  round,  and  so 
It  could  not  be  that  all  this  journeying 
Should  e'er  do  more  than  bring  him  back  to  us, 
If  he  through  weary  years  should  persevere. 

"I  know,"  he  quick  replied,  "the  world  is  round 
To  railroads  and  canals,  and  yet  I  do 
Believe,"  and,  voicing  o'er  his  hopeful  creed, 
And  striding  on,  he  soon  was  lost  to  view. 


We  heard  of  him  as  passing  through  the  towns 

To  west  of  us;  but  soon  he  was  forgot 

By  all  except  myself  and  one  poor  maid 

Whom  much  love  led  astray.  And  soon  she  paid 

The  debt  of  Nature,  not  as  doth  befit 

Such  payment  dread,  but,  maddened  by  cold  looks, 

She,  sporting  with  dank  grasses  in  a  pool, 

Gave  back  to  God  the  life  His  creatures  scorned, 

And  breathed  in  death  moist  prayers  to  heaven. 

Never 

Since  then  hath  any  mention  of  the  man 
Reached  me.  Nor  have  I  ought  on  which  to  rely 


56  A  WILLIAMS  ANTHOLOGY 

Except  a  dim  remembrance.  Yet  in  me 
A  fixed  belief  hath  taken  root,  and  grows 
With  growing  years,  —  that,  far  beyond  those  hills 
I*  the  west,  upon  high  plains,  among  his  peers, 
The  fool  hath  long  been  deemed  philosopher. 
Athenaum,  1876. 


BALLADE  OF  THE  HAUNTED  STREAM 

EDWARD  G.  BENEDICT  '82 

LIKE  some  fair  girl  who  hastes  to  meet  her  swain, 

Yet  hesitates  each  step  with  maiden  fear, 
So  the  still  stream  glides  downward  to  the  main, 
Pausing  at  times  in  fern-set  pools,  —  and  here, 
Where  bend  the  willow  branches  to  the  clear 
Deep  pool  beneath,  and  where  the  forest  hoar 
Seems  whispering  old  tales  of  magic  lore, 

They  say  by  night  the  fairies  dance  in  glee, 
And  on  the  moss  beside  the  curving  shore 
The  Queen  of  Elfland  holds  her  revelry. 

From  beds  in  purple  buds  where  they  have  lain 

Until  the  mystic  midnight  time  drew  near, 
To  chimes  of  hare-bells  and  the  far-off  strain 
Of  forest  melodies,  the  elves  appear 
In  all  the  gorgeousness  of  goblin  gear. 

With  brilliant  dress  the  golden-beetle  wore, 
With  scarlet  plumes  the  humming-bird  once  bore, 
They  come  in  troops  from  every  flower  and  tree, 
And  'round  the  fairy  throne  in  concourse  pour,  — 
The  Queen  of  Elfland  holds  her  revelry. 

Yet  mortal  eyes  see  not  the  goblin  train 

Whose  bells  sound  faintly  on  the  passer's  ear,  — 
Who  dares  attempt  a  secret  sight  to  gain 
Feels  the  sharp  prick  of  many  an  elfin  spear, 
And  hears,  too  late,  the  low,  malicious  jeer, 
As  long  thorn-javelins  his  body  gore, 
57 


58  A  WILLIAMS  ANTHOLOGY 

Until,  defeated,  breathless,  bruised,  and  sore, 
He  turns  him  from  the  haunted  ground  to  flee, 

And  murmurs  low,  as  grace  he  doth  implore, 
"The  Queen  of  Elfland  holds  her  revelry!" 

ENVOI 

Sweet  mortal  maid,  that  fairy  world  of  yore 
Has  vanished,  with  the  midnights  that  are  o'er; 
Yet  come  and  sit  beside  the  stream  with  me, 
That  I,  beholding  thee,  may  say,  "Once  more 

The  Queen  of  Elfland  holds  her  revelry." 
Argo,  1882. 


INDIAN  SUMMER 
VILLANELLE 

HERBERT  S.  UNDERWOOD  '83 

WHEN  the  forest  flames  in  crimson  and  gold, 

While  the  sinking  sun  seems  a  molten  mass, 
And  a  beautiful  blaze  is  all  the  wold, 

The  sumach  flashes,  a  banner  unrolled, 

And  yellow-clad  boughs  glow  like  burnished  brass, 
When  the  forest  flames  in  crimson  and  gold. 

What  secrets  the  listening  leaves  are  told, 
As  strollers  along  worn  wood-paths  pass, 
And  a  beautiful  blaze  is  all  the  wold! 

In  the  gay,  glad  light  grow  wooers  bold, 

For  there 's  brightness  e'en  in  the  dark  morass, 
When  the  forest  flames  in  crimson  and  gold. 

And  when  she  is  gently  coaxed  and  cajoled, 

The  hues  find  mirrors  in  cheeks  of  the  lass, 
And  a  beautiful  blaze  is  all  the  wold. 

But  still  is  there  one  who  remains  e'er  cold 
In  the  glow  of  the  Indian  summer;  alas! 

When  the  forest  flames  in  crimson  and  gold, 

And  a  beautiful  blaze  is  all  the  wold. 
Athenaum,  1883. 


59 


GONDELIED 

"LICHEN" 

O'ER  the  deep  sighing  sea, 
Mirrored  as  dreams  of  thee, 

Stars  watches  keep. 
Wavelets  laugh  soft  and  free, 
Calling  my  love  to  me; 

The  world 's  asleep. 

Far  from  the  day's  dull  care, 
Into  the  moonlight  fair, 

Our  boat  shall  speed; 
Songs  floating  on  the  air, 
Haste  we  with  music  rare, 

Where  Love  would  lead. 

Life 's  but  a  transient  dream; 
All  things  that  are  or  seem, 

Breathe  but  a  day. 
Come,  eyes  that  on  me  beam, 
Leave  what  ye  sorrow  deem, 

While  yet  ye  may. 
Fortnight,  1886. 


60 


IN  HOLLAND   BROWN 

RONDEAU 
SANBORN  GOVE  TENNEY  '86 

IN  Holland  brown  she  stands  to  greet 
Me  as  I  come  adown  the  street, 
The  sunlight  falling  on  her  hair 
Leaves  warm  caresses  gently  there  — 
A  picture  with  true  grace  replete! 

The  roses  twining  round  her  feet 
Breathe  gentle  fragrance  rare  and  sweet, 
She  sings  a  merry  rustic  air  — 
In  holland  brown. 

O  years  that  fly  so  swift  and  fleet! 
O  storms  that  'gainst  her  window  beat! 
Keep  her  from  harm  and  tears  and  care! 
That  future  years  niay  find  her  where 
In  days  of  June  we  used  to  meet, 

In  holland  brown. 
Fortnight,  1886. 


61 


HYLAS 

SANBORN  GOVE  TENNEY  '86 

MANY  years  have  left  their  shadows  on  the  pathless  flow  of 

time; 
Many  bards  have  with  soft  music  sung  their  lays  of  ancient 

rhyme, 
Since  the  day  when  rosy  Hylas  plunged  into  Scamander's 

wave, 
Since  the  am'rous  Naiads  bore  him  where  no  human  arm 

could  save. 

On  the  waves  swift  Argo  rested;  scarce  a  ripple  stirred  the 

sea, 
While  across  the  Dardan  meadows  sighed  the  breezes  soft 

and  free; 

Then  the  sun,  in  golden  splendor,  sank  into  a  sea  of  flame, 
Darkness  o'er  the  blue  hills  rested;  yet  no  fair  young  Hylas 

came. 

For  the  water  nymphs  had  loved  him,  when  they  saw  his 

beauty  rare, 
And  with  yielding  lips  caressing,  they  entwined  him  with 

their  hair, 
Till  they  bound  him,  still  entreating,  with  this  soft  and  silken 

chain, 
Till  they  drew  him  'neath  the  waters,  whence  he  ne'er  should 

come  again. 

Then  the  moon,  a  crescent  jewel,  edged  the  clouds  with 
silver  light, 

While  they  sped  like  shallops  sailing,  swift- winged  messen- 
gers of  Night. 

62 


SANBORN  GOVE  TENNEY  63 

And  the  stream,  dark-hued  and  somber,  sighed  in  surges  on 

the  shore, 
Gently  sighed  among  its  rushes,  "Hylas!  Hylas!"  o'er  and 

o'er. 

Yet  no  voice  replied  in  answer,  tho'  the  sighing  louder  grew, 
Tho'  with  sorrow  bowed  the  flowers  and  their  tears  were 

drops  of  dew; 
No  sweet  echo  breaks  the  silence,  tho'  the  heart  may  hope 

and  yearn, 
O'er  the  stream  a  realm  of  quiet,  on  the  shore  the  empty 

urn. 
Fortnight,  1886. 


THE  'CELLO 

SAMUEL  ABBOTT  '87 

THE  mellow  light  steals  o'er  its  silent  strings, 
That  catch  the  sound  of  some  far  sylvan  strain; 
Such  fantasie  as  thrills  the  poet's  brain, 

Or  Morpheus,  floating  'neath  the  pale  stars,  brings. 

And  list!  Divinely,  on  its  own  sad  wings, 
It  sings  a  wondrous  pitiful  refrain, 
Methinks  some  soul  with  aching  grief  is  lain  — 

That  moans  and  dies  with  broken  murmurings. 

The  voice  is  hushed,  the  lights  are  low  and  spent; 
The  dancers  bid  farewell,  with  tired  feet. 

Too  few,  I  ween,  this  thing  of  wood  has  meant 
A  tenth  part  what  its  harmony,  so  sweet, 
Has  told  to  me.  'Mid  joy,  the  sorrows  greet 

The  wanderer,  their  hearts  by  weeping  rent. 

Fortnight,  1887. 


MILLET'S  "ANGELUS" 

ELBRIDGE  LAPHAM  ADAMS  '87 

DIM,  distant,  tinkling  chimes, 
That  summoned  men  in  olden  times 

To  pray  the  Virgin  grace  impart; 
Ye  solemn  voices  of  a  day  gone  by, 
Whose  mystic  strains  of  melody 

Alike  touched  peer  and  peasant's  heart: 
Your  music  falters  in  the  fleeting  years, 
Yet  still  conies  faintly  to  our  ears, 

Saved  by  a  master's  cunning  art. 
Literary  Monthly,  1885. 


A  SUMMER  AFTERNOON 

HENRY  D.  WILD  '88 

IN  the  country,  with  a  soft,  calm,  hazy  afternoon  to  keep 
you  company !  To  feel  that  Nature  and  yourself  have  moods 
in  common,  for  you  are  lazy  and  Nature  is  lazy,  too,  and 
blinks  sleepily  at  you  from  filmy,  dreamy  eyes  that  open 
and  shut  with  your  own  in  a  sort  of  drowsy  rhythm.  What 
more  delightful  than  to  yield  yourself  entirely  to  the  pre- 
sent mood  and  wander  off  somewhere,  aimless  except  to 
see  and  feel?  The  trim  soberness  of  the  dusty  road  with  its 
gray  windings  and  vistas  of  sand-ruts  becomes  less  matter- 
of-fact  at  length,  and  so  you  leave  it  to  itself,  and  seek  a  path 
that  leads  to  the  heart  of  Nature  and  far  from  ways  of  men. 
Down  grassy  slopes  and  over  little  hillocks  that  pique  your 
curiosity  by  shutting  out  the  view  of  what  is  coming  next; 
now  skirting  the  edge  of  a  furrowed  potato-patch,  and  now 
sauntering  down  cool  lanes  of  corn,  listening  to  the  breezy 
lisping  of  the  long,  green  leaves  that  flap  you  softly  in  the 
face;  now  across  a  moist  spot  where  a  spring  bubbles  forth, 
apparently  only  to  nourish  a  family  of  cowslips,  and  so  on 
and  on  until  you  break  the  stillness  of  a  shady  wood  as 
your  feet  keep  alternate  time  among  the  heaps  of  leaves 
whose  rustling  is  varied  by  the  occasional  noise  of  crackling 
twigs.  The  damp  air,  freshened  by  contact  with  trickling 
drops  and  oozy  bogs,  and  perfumed  with  spicy  cedar,  soothes 
and  cools.  Yonder  lies  prostrate  some  mighty  giant  of  the 
forest,  victim  of  a  ruthless  storm,  grim  with  decay  and  rais- 
ing a  vertical  base  of  black  sod  and  tangled  roots  torn  from 
the  earth  where  a  gaping  wound  shows  its  former  place. 
Here  a  rock,  moist  with  swamp-sweat,  lichen-covered  and 
set  in  moss.  -There  a  clump  of  thick-grown  cedars,  deep 

66 


HENRY  D.  WILD  67 

shelter  for  the  timid  rabbit.  All  is  noiseless,  breathless. 
Not  even  the  squirrel  chatters,  for  it  is  not  long  past  noon. 
But  farther  on  comes  a  dull,  low  murmuring,  scarcely  to 
be  heard  at  first,  so  nicely  does  it  fit  this  gentle  monotone 
of  silence,  yet  soon  filling  the  trembling  air  with  overtones 
that  rise  and  fall  and  swell  again  in  varying  chords.  It  is 
the  river.  A  few  steps  more  and  you  are  there,  and  beside 
the  stream  in  a  fragrant  bed  of  ferns,  with  one  hand  ca- 
ressing the  delicate  tresses  of  the  maidenhair,  and  the 
other  dipped  among  the  ripples,  you  give  yourself  up, 
half  dozing,  to  thoughts  of  the  long  ago  and  the  far  away 
that  seem  to  float  up  from  the  past  along  the  dim  wind- 
ings of  the  stream.  The  sun  makes  dancing  spots  of  dark 
and  light  between  the  fluttering  leaves,  and  throws  a 
changing  shadow  upon  yon  deep  pool,  where  a  grand  old 
beech,  festooned  with  clematis,  leans  its  gray  trunk  far  over 
as  if  to  bless  the  stream  whose  waters,  bubbling  swiftly 
over  the  pebbles  a  little  higher  up,  calm  themselves  here 
to  rest  in  peace.  The  wood-thrush  sends  its  plaintive,  soli- 
tary note  of  silver-globuled  melody  from  the  inmost  forest. 
No  other  sound,  save  when  a  wagon  now  and  then  rolls 
its  quick  rumble  across  a  bridge,  and  then  is  gone  like 
some  self-conscious  intruder.  But  luxury  like  this  is  the 
very  thief  of  time.  Before  you  are  aware  the  waves  of  heat 
have  ceased  to  form  a  throbbing  air-hive  for  humming  in- 
sects, and  the  cool  of  early  twilight  has  come  on,  attended 
by  lengthening  shadows.  And  so  home  again  along  the 
dewy  fields,  while  an  orchestra  of  crickets  chirps  a  happy 
end  beneath  the  summer  stars  to  the  day  that  is  done. 
It  is  in  ways  like  this  that  poets  renew  their  souls,  the  old 
their  youth,  and  weary  hearts,  in  sweet  release  from  care, 
gain  strength  for  life. 
Literary  Monthly,  1887. 


QUESTIONINGS 

GEORGE  L.  RICHARDSON  '88 

THERE  are  strange  complications  in  it  all, 
This  life  of  ours  —  had  I  fourfold  the  wit 

That  as  his  share  to  any  man  doth  fall, 
I  fear  me  that  I  could  not  fathom  it. 

This  sorrow  bringing  laughter,  and  joy  tears, 
Conflicting  things  we  cannot  understand; 

This  constant  longing  for  great  length  of  years, 
That  brings  but  weary  limb  and  feeble  hand; 

Eyes  that  are  dim,  and  saddened,  lowly  life; 

These  hot-waged  wars,  squalid  with  cries  of  pain, 
This  joy  in  contest  and  this  thirst  for  strife, 

In  which  both  suffer,  and  there  is  no  gain; 

Strong  love  that  ere  long  turns  to  stronger  hate, 
Sin  leading  into  good,  good  into  sin  — 

In  very  truth  do  lambs  with  tigers  mate. 
The  world  is  wide,  and  strange  things  are  therein. 

Fortnight,  1887. 


68 


ON  BRYANT'S  "  THANATOPSIS " 

GEORGE  LYNDE  RICHARDSON  '88 

A  GREAT  thought  came  to  a  great  singer's  heart, 
Out  of  the  grandeur  of  the  changeless  hills  — 
A  thought  whose  greatness  e'en  in  our  day  fills 
Men's  minds  with  nobler  feeling.  All  his  art 
He  lavished  on  the  poem  that  he  wrought, 
That  it  might  be,  through  all  the  years  of  time, 
An  inspiration,  to  all  men,  sublime, 
And  nor  for  fault  of  his  hand  come  to  naught. 
So  it  hath  been.  The  singer  lieth  dead; 
His  words  live  on.  And  still  the  mountains  stand, 
And  all  men  say  who  know  them,  in  that  land  — 
And  through  all  ages,  it  will  still  be  said  — 
Not  gold  that  perisheth,  from  deep-hid  veins, 
They  give  us,  but  the  thought  that  aye  remains. 
Literary  Monthly,  1887. 


SUMMER  SONG1 

TALCOTT  M.  BANKS  '90 

COME,  friend  scholar,  cease  your  bending 

Over  books  with  eager  gaze; 
Time  it  were  such  work  had  ending,  — 

Well  enough  for  rainy  days. 
Out  with  me  where  sunlight  pours, 
Life  to-day  is  out  of  doors ! 

Busy?  Pshaw !  what  good  can  reach  you 
Frowning  o'er  that  dog-eared  page? 

Yonder  rushing  brook  can  teach  you 
More  than  half  your  Classic  Age. 

Banish  Greeks  and  Siren  shores, 

Let  your  thoughts  run  out  of  doors! 

Rest  we  here  where  none  can  spy  us, 

Deep  in  rippling  fields  of  grass; 
Scented  winds  blow  softly  by  us, 

Lazy  clouds  above  us  pass; 
Higher  yet  my  fancy  soars  — 
All  my  soul  is  out  of  doors ! 
Literary  Monthly,  1888. 

1  Copyright,  1907,  by  T.  M.  Banks.  With  permission. 


70 


THE  BACKWARD  LOOK1 

TALCOTT  M.  BANKS  '90 

ONCE  on  a  bright  October  day, 

I  took  the  road  whose  winding  track 

Leads  up  among  the  hills  away 
Across  Taconic's  shaggy  back, 

Leaving  the  valley  broad  and  fair 

For  barren  heights  in  upper  air. 

At  last  I  stood  upon  the  crest; 

The  ruddy  sun  was  sinking  low, 
And  all  the  country  to  the  west 

Lay  flooded  with  a  golden  glow  — 
A  fairyland  of  misty  light, 
Unsullied  by  the  touch  of  night. 

I  turned,  and  lo,  a  sudden  change 
Had  swept  across  the  valley's  face. 

The  shadow  of  Taconic's  range 
Had  fallen  on  the  lovely  place; 

And  darkness  followed  thick  and  fast 

Behind  the  shadow  as  it  passed. 

Since  then  the  changeful  years  have  flown 

Till  now  once  more  I  seem  to  stand 
Upon  the  mountain  top  alone, 

And  look  abroad  upon  the  land. 
But  all  before  is  gray  and  dim, 
Half-hidden  in  the  cloud-wrack  grim; 
While  in  the  Berkshire  valley  stays 
The  light  that  dawned  in  happier  days. 
Literary  Monthly,  1893. 

1  Copyright,  1907,  by  T.  M.  Banks.   With  permission. 
71 


SERENADE 

ARTHUR  OLIVER  '93 

IF  all  the  stars  were  gems,  love, 

And  all  those  gems  were  mine, 
I  'd  give  them  in  exchange,  love, 

For  that  dear  heart  of  thine. 
But,  since  the  stars  so  bright,  love, 

Are  neither  gems  nor  mine, 
What  can  I  do,  but  sigh  and  rue 

My  luckless  lot,  and  pine, 
And  gaze  on  high,  where  night  winds  sigh, 

Across  thy  lattice  vine? 

If  all  the  little  birds,  love, 

That  twitter  'mid  the  dew, 
Could  sing  in  words  and  tell,  love, 

The  love  I  bear  to  you, 
They  would  not  end  their  song,  love, 

The  night's  long  vigil  through; 
But  all  the  wings  that  morning  brings 

Would  soar  amid  the  blue, 
And  float  along  on  waves  of  song, 

With  carols  sweet  and  new. 
Literary  Monthly,  1893. 


OLD  TRINITY 

FREDERICK  D.  GOODWIN  '95 

PLACED  'midst  the  city's  busiest  life, 
Not  a  stone's  throw  from  the  deadly  strife 

Of  the  metropolitan  mart, 
Old  Trinity  stands;  her  spire,  like  a  hand, 
Points  ever  upward;  her  chimes  demand 

From  the  hardened  world  a  heart. 

Clustered  around  her,  buried,  lie 
Many  whose  names  can  never  die, 

Founders  of  their  country's  weal: 
Patriot  churchmen,  statesmen,  soldiers, 
There  they  sleep  who  were  its  moulders; 

Sculptured  stones  their  deeds  reveal. 

Trinity's  self  was  new-born  with  the  nation; 
Springing  from  ashes  of  desolation, 

She  helped  to  forge  posterity. 
Now  she  looks  from  her  chosen  station, 
At  pageant,  starvation,  begg'ry,  ovation, 

Results  of  her  sons'  prosperity. 

Within,  away  from  the  din  and  crowd 

And  the  mendicants'  cries  and  the  laughter  loud, 

Of  Pleasure  in  hand  with  Youth, 
Is  the  silent  yet  eloquent  reign  of  Peace 
And  the  utterance  of  words  which  shall  not  cease 

While  the  earth  has  a  place  for  Truth. 
73 


74  A  WILLIAMS  ANTHOLOGY 

When  peal  on  peal  the  organ's  voice 
Calls  the  assembled  to  rejoice 

For  blessings  unsurpassed, 
Or  when  its  milder  tones  tell  Grief, 
Then  e'en  Death's  triumph  is  but  brief, 

Old  Trinity's  charm  but  half  is  grasped. 

Far  sweeter  it  is  in  the  twilights  glim, 
When  the  symbolled  altar  is  growing  dim, 

And  the  wayward  shadows  dart, 
To  watch  the  golden  light  stream  in 
Each  lofty  window,  as  though  all  sin 

At  its  entrance  must  depart. 

Saints'  and  martyrs'  pictured  graces, 
Illumined  by  these  heavenly  traces, 

Shine  in  blue  and  saffron  and  red; 
But  in  the  sun's  last  traces,  above  their  faces, 
Beam  the  eyes  which  no  might  from  the  soul  effaces, 

And  the  Christ's  mock-crowned  head. 
Literary  Monthly,  1894. 


TWO  TRIOLETS  OF  AUTUMN 

KARL  E.  WESTON  '96 

'NEATH  fading  leaves  and  dreary  skies, 
A  late-born  rose  burst  into  bloom 
And  gazed  about  with  sad  surprise, 
'Neath  fading  leaves  and  dreary  skies; 
Let  fall  from  Summer's  bier,  it  lies 
In  Autumn's  pathway  'mid  the  gloom 
Of  fading  leaves  and  dreary  skies, 
A  late-born  rose,  burst  into  bloom. 

Beside  the  ever  restless  sea 
Fair  Autumn  stands.   With  beckoning  hand 
She  hails  the  passing  days,  which  flee 
Across  the  ever  restless  sea,  — 
Their  sealed  ears  hearing  not  the  plea 
Which  sea- winds  waft  from  that  fair  land 
Beside  the  ever  restless  sea, 
Where  Autumn  stands  with  beckoning  hand. 
Literary  Monthly,  1894. 


NANTUCKET 

ARTHUR  KETCHUM  '98 

ADRIFT  in  taintless  seas  she  dreaming  lies, 
The  island  city,  time-worn  now,  and  gray, 
Her  dark  wharves  ruinous,  where  once  there  lay 
Tall  ships,  at  rest  from  far-sea  industries. 
The  busy  hand  of  trade  no  longer  plies 
Within  her  streets.  In  quiet  court  and  way 
The  grass  has  crept  —  and  sun  and  shadows  play 
Beneath  her  elms,  in  changing  traceries; 
The  years  have  claimed  her  theirs,  and  the  still  peace 
Of  wind  and  sun  and  mist,  blown  thick  and  white, 
Has  folded  her.  The  voices  of  the  seas 
Through  many  a  soft,  bright  day  and  brooding  night 
Have  wrought  her  silence,  wide  as  they,  and  deep, 
And  dreaming  of  the  past,  she  waits  —  asleep. 
Literary  Monthly,  1897. 


THE  GYPSY  STRAIN 

ARTHUR  KETCHUM  '98 

IT  comes  with  the  autumn's  silence, 
When  great  Hills  dream  apart, 
And  far  blue  leagues  of  distance 
Call  to  the  Gypsy-heart. 

When  all  the  length  of  sunny  roads, 
A  lure  to  restless  feet, 
Are  largesses  of  goldenrod 
And  beck  of  bitter-sweet. 

Then  the  wand'rer  in  us  wakens 
And  out  from  citied  girth, 
To  go  a- vagabonding  down 
The  wide  ways  of  the  Earth. 
Literary  Monthly,  1898. 


77 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  CAVALIERS 

JAMES  B.  CORCORAN    ex-'oi 

WHEN  our  sabers  rattle  merrily  against  our  lances'  butt, 

And  our  bugles  ring  out  clearly  in  the  coolness  of  the  dawn, 

You  can  see  the  guidons  waving  as  the  ranks  begin  to  shut, 

And  the  morning  sun  beams  forth  on  the  sabers  that  are 

drawn. 

Then  the  bits  begin  to  jangle  and  our  horses  paw  the  air, 
When  we  vault  into  the  saddle  and  we  grasp  the  bridle- 
rein; 

Of  danger  we  are  fearless  and  for  death  we  do  not  care, 
For  we  fight  for  good  Don  Carlos  and  the  grim  grandees 
of  Spain. 

So  to  horse  and  away, 

At  the  break  of  day, 
With  never  a  thought  of  fears; 

For  Spain  and  the  right 

We '11  die  or  we '11  fight, 
Sing  ho,  for  the  cavaliers ! 

As  we  gallop  through  the  villages  or  through  the  sylvan 

glades, 
Merry  maid  and  buxom  matron  smile  and  wave  as  we 

ride  by; 

There  are  broken  hearts  behind  us  as  well  as  broken  blades, 
For  the  cavaliers  are  gallants  till  the  war-notes  rend  the 

sky. 

But  when  summer  breezes  waver  and  grow  cold  with  news 
of  war, 

78 


JAMES  B.  CORCORAN  79 

We  gird  our  good  swords  closer  and  we  arm  us  for  the 

fight; 
Maid  and  wine  cup  fade  behind  us,  lance  and  helmet  to  the 

fore, 
And  we  wheel  into  our  battle  line  for  Carlos  and  the  right. 

So  to  horse  and  away, 

At  the  break  of  day, 
With  never  a  thought  of  fears; 

We '11  die  or  we '11  fight, 

For  Spain  and  the  right; 
Sing  ho,  for  the  cavaliers! 

When  at  last  the  brazen  bugles  ripple  out  the  ringing  charge, 
We  rise  up  in  our  stirrups  and  we  wave  our  swords  on 

high, 
The  dust  clouds  rise  beneath  us,  and  the  demons  seem  at 

large  — 

The  cavaliers  are  charging  in  to  conquer  or  to  die. 
Grim  death  may  claim  his  victims  from  out  our  whirling 

ranks, 
Our  plumes  may  be  down-trodden  in  the  grimy,  bloody 

sod: 

The  cavaliers  will  meet  their  fate  without  a  word  of  thanks, 
But  they've  died  for  good  Don  Carlos,  for  old  Spain,  and 
for  their  God. 

So  to  horse  and  away, 

At  the  break  of  day, 
With  never  a  thought  of  fears; 

We '11  die  or  we '11  fight 

For  Spain  and  the  right; 
Sing  ho,  for  the  cavaliers ! 
Literary  Monthly,  1897. 


RECOMPENSE 

CHARLES  P.  PARKHURST  '98 

AT  dawn  he  toils  the  steep  to  gain  the  flower, 
The  lure  that  beckons  from  the  height  afar; 
Noon  wanes  to  eve,  the  bloom  has  fled,  but  lo! 
High  in  the  purple  night  there  gleams  a  star. 
Literary  Monthly ,  1897. 


80 


CERVERA  AT  ANNAPOLIS 

HENRY  R.  CONGER  '99 

THEY  crowded  round  to  see  him,  great  and  small, 
The  conquered  admiral  of  a  conquered  fleet, 
Shorn  of  his  glories,  thrown  from  his  high  seat, 
Great  by  the  very  greatness  of  his  fall. 
Hope,  honor,  fortune,  lost  beyond  recall, 
Greyhaired  and  bitter-hearted;  doomed  to  meet 
His  country's  censure,  sharper  than  defeat; 
His  foeman's  pity  —  that  was  worst  of  all. 

He  heard  them  faintly,  as  one  hears,  amuse, 
Amid  his  vision  voices  far  away 
That  call  him  from  sad  dreams  to  sadder  day; 
For  he  was  where  he  would  be  could  he  choose, 
At  peace  beneath  the  waters  of  the  bay, 
Where  all  his  ships  lay  silent  with  their  crews. 
Literary  Monthly,  1898. 


81 


THE  ANSWER 

DWIGHT  W.  MARVIN  '01 

I  WONDERED  why  the  western  hills  were  always  smiling  so, 
Until  one  evening  when  the  heavens  were  like  a  fiery  sea; 
For,  as  the  Sun  crept  down  the  sky  amid  the  sunset-glow, 
He  paused  upon  the  western  hills,  and  kissed  them  tenderly. 
Literary  Monthly,  1900. 


ONE  OF  THE  PLODDERS 

HARRY  JAMES  SMITH  '02 

THROUGH  the  gathering  gloom  of  a  summer  evening  a  young 
man  walked  wearily  up  the  dusty  road  toward  the  Waring 
farmhouse.  In  each  hand  he  carried  a  brimming  pail  and 
as  he  stepped  along  the  milk  in  them  flopped  softly  against 
their  tin  sides.  Out  from  the  white  streak  of  sky  behind  his 
figure  stood  strongly  relieved  in  silhouette,  large,  stooping, 
dispirited.  The  whole  attitude  was  one  of  extreme  fatigue, 
though  for  the  silence  and  automatic  movement  of  him 
you  might  almost  think  him  a  piece  of  ambulatory  mechan- 
ism. Once  or  twice,  to  be  sure,  he  turned  his  head,  perhaps 
to  look  off  over  the  cultivated  fields  and  to  calculate  the 
labor  still  to  be  put  on  them,  or  possibly  to  draw  a  sort  of 
unconscious,  tired  satisfaction  from  these  encouraging  re- 
sults of  so  many  weary  hours.  At  any  rate  his  pace  never 
altered.  Overhead  the  large  maple  trees  reached  their 
glooming  branches  in  a  mysterious,  impenetrable  canopy 
that  rustled  softly  in  the  dusky  silence.  For  the  night  was 
still,  despite  the  squeaking  of  katydids  and  the  distant 
peep  of  frogs.  Along  the  sides  of  the  road  as  it  stretched  on 
ahead  like  a  brownish  ribbon  and  vanished  under  the  far- 
ther trees,  ran  stone  walls,  low  and  massive,  and  sharply 
hemming  in  the  dusty  highway  from  the  cool,  green  fields 
beyond. 

David  Waring  was  not  consciously  aware  of  anything 
in  the  world,  but  his  whole  body  was  alive  to  the  anticipa- 
tion of  the  near  end  of  his  day's  work.  A  few  minutes  more 
and  he  should  have  set  the  milk  into  the  coolers,  thrown  off 
his  overalls,  and  washed  himself  in  cold  spring  water  — 

83 


84  A    WILLIAMS    ANTHOLOGY 

and  then  he  could  drop  into  a  chair  on  the  quiet  porch  and 
take  his  ease. 

Quite  unexpectedly  just  ahead  of  him  a  young  woman 
stepped  out  from  the  shadow  of  a  tree  and  sprang  lightly 
into  the  road.  "Hello,  David!''  she  said,  waiting  for  him 
to  come  up  to  her.  "You  look  as  tired  as  a  plough-horse. 
What's  the  matter?" 

"Well,  I  am,  Janet.  It  does  n't  hardly  seem  as  if  I  could 
push  one  foot  ahead  of  another.  Here  I've  been  working 
all  day  long,  and  only  just  done  at  eight  or  nine  o'clock." 

"Poor  boy,"  answered  the  girl.  "Come  and  sit  down  a 
few  minutes  while  I  talk  to  you.  I  did  n't  go  round  to  the 
house  because  I  knew  your  father  and  mother  would  be 
off  at  meeting." 

David  needed  no  urging.  He  placed  the  pails  of  milk  by 
the  roadside  and  together  the  two  sat  down  by  the  stone 
wall. 

"I  'd  let  you  put  your  arm  around  me  if  you  did  n't  smell 
so  cowy,"  said  Janet  with  a  little  laugh. 

"That's  not  my  fault,"  he  answered.  '"Somebody's  got 
to  milk  the  poor  old  beasts,  and  I  don't  know  who  would  if 
I  did  n't.  That  does  n't  make  me  like  it,  though.  Oh  Janet, 
when  I  feel  as  tired  as  I  do  to-night  I  get  terribly  sickened 
with  all  this  humdrum  life  on  the  farm!  It's  just  work, 
work,  from  morning  till  night  and  when  you  get  done  you  're 
too  tired  to  read  or  lalk  or  do  anything  but  just  go  to  sleep 
like  a  big  ox.  If  it  were  n't  for  father's  and  mother's  sakes 
I  believe  I  'd  quit  the  old  place  in  a. minute.  If  I  could  only 
go  off  somewhere  —  anywhere,  only  to  be  out  of  sight  of 
the  farm!" 

"Well,  I  like  that,  Mr.  Waring,"  said  the  girl,  with  a  look 
half  indignant,  half  smiling.  "Is  that  the  only  thing  that 
keeps  you  here?  I  guess  perhaps  it's  time  for  me  to  go 
home  now." 


HARRY  JAMES  SMITH  85 

"Oh,  Janet,  don't  take  it  that  way!  You  know  what  I 
mean.  I'm  just  sick  and  tired  of  the  whole  business,  and 
I  wish  to  goodness  I  could  throw  it  over.  By  the  way,  I 
suppose  you  know  my  brother 's  coming  home  from  Yale 
to-morrow.  It's  almost  two  years  since  I've  seen  him  ex- 
cept for  a  week  or  two.  I  guess  he'll  have  changed  some; 
his  letters  sound  so,  anyway." 

"  That 's  just  what  I  came  down  to  ask  you  about.  I  heard 
it  yesterday  and  I  'd  be  awfully  glad  if  you  two  would  come 
up  to  supper  day  after  to-morrow  —  that 's  Sunday.  I  'm 
so  anxious  to  see  him  because  I  know  he  '11  have  lots  to  tell 
us  about  college  and  the  city  and  things  like  that.  Oh, 
David,  I  get  tired  too  of  always  staying  here  in  the  country 
and  teaching  school  forever,  when  there  are  so  many  things 
to  learn  and  so  much  to  see  off  there  in  the  world.  That 's 
what  Loren  can  tell  us  about.  It  '11  be  next  best  to  getting 
off  somewhere  one's  self." 

During  the  course  of  the  conversation  the  streak  of  white 
in  the  west  had  turned  to  gray  and  the  night  was  rapidly 
closing  down.  The  girl  jumped  to  the  ground; "  Good-night," 
she  said,  as  she  started  away,  "I'll  see  you  both  Sunday, 
—  sure,  now!" 

David  picked  up  his  milk-pails  and  completed  the  work 
of  the  day.  A  little  later  he  had  seated  himself  on  the  porch. 
He  felt  discontented  and  unhappy  though  he  could  not 
have  told  exactly  why.  But  one  thing  was  evident  —  he 
was  not  anticipating  Loren's  home-coming  with  much  plea- 
sure. He  felt,  in  fact,  a  certain  reluctance,  or  rather  timidity, 
about  meeting  this  younger  brother  of  his  who  knew  so 
much  and  talked  so  much,  and  seemed  to  enjoy  himself 
so  thoroughly.  He  anticipated  keenly  the  difference  that 
two  years  must  have  brought  between  them,  and  dreaded 
the  time  when  they  should  be  put  side  by  side  once  more  and 
compared.  For  David,  too  —  the  older  of  the  boys  by 


86  A  WILLIAMS  ANTHOLOGY 

a  year  —  had  expected  to  go  to  college  and  till  the  time 
came  had  never  doubted  the  expediency  of  it.  But,  as  is  so 
often  the  case,  that  merry-making  force  in  human  affairs 
that  we  call  Circumstance  —  or  is  it  Providence?  —  had 
it  fixed  up  otherwise.  Mr.  Waring  had  suddenly  lighted 
upon  chronic  poor  health  as  a  daily  companion  on  the  walk 
of  life,  and  his  time  was  so  much  engrossed  therewith  that 
David  seemed  called  upon — nay,  impelled  —  to  become  the 
main-stay  of  the  farm;  Loren  was  still  too  young;  financial 
affairs  were  far  from  encouraging;  Mrs.  Waring  looked  con- 
stantly to  her  older  son  for  advice  and  assistance;  in  short, 
the  golden  gate  of  the  future  seemed  to  be  drawing  to, 
without  any  voluntary  effort  of  his  own.  Yet  he  had  often 
recalled  since  then  the  night — that  breathless  night  in 
August  four  years  ago  —  when  he  and  his  dearest  ambition 
had  had  their  last  battle,  and  he  had  forced  it  to  cover. 
"  Loren  shall  have  the  best  chance  I  can  give  him,"  he  had 
said  to  himself,  with  his  teeth  gritted,  "and  God  help  me  to 
stick  it  out  here  on  the  farm!"  Thus  it  was,  that,  as  usual, 
Dame  Circumstance  had  won  out  by  a  good  margin. 

And  now  Loren  had  been  two  years  at  Yale  and  was 
coming  home  for  the  summer.  Loren  had  learned  a  vast 
deal  at  college;  among  other  scraps  of  intelligence  he  had 
discovered  that  his  family  were  a  little  outlandish,  and 
that  Melton  was  altogether  too  slow  a  place  for  a  rational 
being  like  himself  to  exist  in  except,  at  the  best,  for  a  few 
summer  weeks.  His  latest  letter,  received  only  yesterday, 
was  a  characteristic  one,  and  David  had  unintentionally 
resented  its  tone  of  breezy  self-assurance:  ".  .  .  I  suppose 
I  shall  show  up  at  fair  Melton,"  it  had  read,  "about  2 135  on 
Saturday,  unless,  that  is,  I  happen  to  get  a  few  days'  in- 
vite to  New  York.  Of  course  David  will  be  down  to  meet 
me  and  bring  my  trunk  up."  The  words  were  innocent 
enough,  but  they  had  insinuated  their  way  into  his  mind 


HARRY  JAMES  SMITH  87 

and  rankled  there  like  an  evil  thing.  "  Yes,  of  course  I  will 
be  down,"  he  said  to  himself  somewhat  bitterly;  "of  course 
I  will,  that 's  to  be  expected.  And  bring  up  his  trunk  for  him ; 
yes;  that's  just  what  I  like  —  the  chance  to  fetch  Loren's 
trunk,  and  I  like  his  way  of  taking  it  all  for  granted,  too." 

The  mental  transition  to  the  matter  of  Janet's  invitation 
was  a  natural  one.  He  began  to  wish  that  she  had  n't  been 
in  such  a  hurry  about  giving  it.  What  could  she  want  of 
Loren?  He  was  n't  anything  to  her.  Why  did  she  have  to 
be  all  the  time  hankering  after  new  friends?  "  New  friends ! " 
With  a  slight  internal  start  David  realized  that  only  three 
years  ago  Loren  had  never  been  away  from  home.  "New 
friends!"  Why,  Janet  had  known  them  both  ever  since  the 
old  days  of  skip-rope  and  hide  and  seek !  What  more  natural 
than  that  she  should  want  to  see  her  old  play-fellow  again? 
Why  should  he  complain?  Hadn't  she  said  once,  "I  love 
you,  David,"  and  was  n't  that  enough  to  make  him  trust 
her? 

A  little  way  down  the  road  he  heard  the  step  of  some 
one  approaching  and  in  a  moment  the  shape  of  a  man  grew 
visible  through  the  darkness.  He  turned,  opened  the  gate, 
and  stepped  to  the  porch.  In  his  hand  he  carried  a  suit-case. 
This  he  set  down  heavily  and  approached  the  door.  David 
sprang  to  his  feet.  "Why  Loren,  is  that  you?  We  were  n't 
expecting  you  to-night." 

"Well,  how  are  you,  old  boy?"  cried  the  new-comer. 
"It's  bully  good  to  see  you  again.  No,  I  did  n't  expect  to 
get  up  to-night,  but  there  was  n't  much  doing  at  college 
and  I  did  n't  get  my  invite,  so  I  thought  I  might  as  well 
come  on  home.  Where  are  the  folks?  " 

"Out  at  meeting  just  now,  but  they'll  be  back  in  a  little 
while.  Sit  down,  you  must  be  tired." 

Loren  took  a  chair  and  sunk  into  it  with  a  sigh  of  com- 
fort. "  You  're  right  I  am.  I  tell  you  it 's  hard  work  to  walk 


88  A  WILLIAMS  ANTHOLOGY 

a  mile  and  a  half  with  a  suit-case.  And  all  the  time  you  were 
just  sitting  comfortably  out  here  on  the  veranda  listening 
to  the  katydids."  He  drew  out  his  pipe  and  lit  it.  "Well, 
how  are  all  the  folks?  Same  as  usual?" 

"I  guess  so.  Father 's  failing  a  little,  and  mother  worries 
a  good  deal,  but  keeps  pretty  well." 

"  That 's  good.  They  must  be  mighty  glad  to  have  one  of 
us  at  home  to  look  after  things.  Lord,  but  I  Ve  often  imag- 
ined you  outdoors  driving  around  in  the  open  air  and  en- 
joying life  when  I've  been  plugging  up  for  some  beastly 
exam.  But,  apropos  of  the  health  bulletin,  etc.,  is  Janet 
Manning  here  still,  or  has  she  gone  off  to  college?  " 

"No,  she's  teaching  school  at  the  Corners.  I  saw  her  a 
minute  to-night,  and  she  invited  us  up  to  supper  there  on 
Sunday." 

"Good!  That's  something  like.  Shall  be  much  charmed 
to  see  the  little  schoolma'am  again.  She's  a  slick  little  girl 
• —  at  least  she  used  to  be.  In  my  opinion  she's  wasting  her 
time  up  here  in  the  woods.  Why,  that  girl's  got  ability, 
and  I  call  it  a  shame  for  her  to  bury  herself  in  the  country 
just  for  her  mother's  account.  But  say,  is  n't  that  a  wagon 
coming  ?" 

The  two  went  down  to  the  gate  and  stood  there  waiting 
for  the  buggy  to  draw  up.  When  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Waring 
were  out,  David  took  the  horse  to  the  barn  and  unhar- 
nessed in  the  dark.  Then  he  reentered  the  house,  and  with- 
out saying  anything  more  than  "  Good-night,"  went  up  to 
his  room. 


II 


It  was  late  in  the  afternoon  of  an  August  day.  From  the 
high  gable  windows  of  the  bam  the  yellow  sunlight  shot 
through  the  dusty  air  in  a  long,  straight  shaft  and  rested 


HARRY  JAMES  SMITH  89 

on  the  lower  part  of  the  haymow,  gilding  every  dry  wisp 
with  a  temporary  and  fatuous  splendor.  Elsewhere  in  the 
barn  it  was  already  half  dark.  On  one  side  the  hay  rose  up 
in  a  tremendous  heap  almost  to  the  roof,  where  it  vanished 
dimly  in  the  dusky  shadows.  Opposite  were  the  cow-stables, 
five  of  them  in  a  row,  each  occupant  munching  her  cud  con- 
tentedly and  now  and  then  giving  vent  to  a  soft,  self-satis- 
fied low.  From  one  of  the  stalls  could  be  heard  the  rhyth- 
mical squirt  of  milk  against  the  milking-pail,  for  David  was 
engaged  upon  his  evening  work.  On  a  rickety  chair  near  the 
hay-loft  sat  Janet,  holding  a  timid  little  barn  cat  in  her  lap 
and  stroking  it  nervously.  She  was  speaking  in  a  voice  that 
betrayed  considerable  agitation. 

"  Well,  I  'm  just  going  to  leave  it  with  you  to  decide,  for 
I'm  not  ready  to  do  it  myself.  But  it  does  seem  to  me  that 
it 's  the  chance  of  a  lifetime.  It 's  just  a  question  of  whether 
I  shall  always  stay  on  here  teaching  district  school,  or  see 
a  little  of  the  world  and  have  a  chance  to  go  on  studying." 

She  stopped,  and  a  moment  of  strained  silence  ensued, 
broken  only  by  the  sound  of  the  milking.  David  pressed 
his  head  against  the  flank  of  the  cow  and  choked  back 
something  in  his  throat.  Then  he  managed  to  speak. 

"Of  course,  Janet,"  he  said,  with  an  attempt  at  com- 
posure. "I  can  see  how  it  must  attract  you  —  this  oppor- 
tunity of  going  off  to  college,  and  I  don't  mean  to.  put  any- 
thing in  your  way.  Such  questions  a  person  has  to  decide 
for  one's  self,  and  I  don't  see  how  I  can  give  you  any  help." 

"Yes,  there  you  are  again.  You  just  won't  say  yes  or 
no;  but  I  am  sure  all  the  time  that  you  don't  really  want 
me  to  go.  You  'd  like  to  keep  me  here  at  home,  just  an  ig- 
norant, stupid  country  girl.  Why  don't  you  want  me  to 
make  something  of  myself,  David?  I  know  I've  got  abil- 
ity, and  you  know  it  as  well  as  I  do,  but  it  is  n't  of  any  use 
to  me  here.  Would  n't  you  feel  proud  of  me  if  I  went  off 
and  did  something  worth  while  ?" 


9o  A  WILLIAMS  ANTHOLOGY 

David  could  not  answer  at  once.  He  sat  with  his  eyes 
shut,  his  knees  pressed  rigidly  against  the  pail,  and  against 
his  head  he  felt  the  warm,  throbbing  pulse  of  the  animal  in 
front  of  him.  Upon  his  mind  a  picture  was  forcing  itself 
with  cruel  insistence.  It  was  the  Janet  of  a  year  hence, 
well-dressed,  sedate,  intellectual,  with  all  her  new  college 
interests  to  talk  of;  and  side  by  side  with  this  he  saw  him- 
self—  what  would  he  be?  Just  the  same  as  ever,  only  a 
little  more  awkward  and  out  of  date,  and  when  he  talked  it 
would  be  of  —  yes,  his  cows,  and  the  new  pig,  and  the 
price  of  potatoes !  It  was  Loren  who  would  be  suited  to  her 
then;  it  was  they  who  would  sit  under  the  trees  together  and 
the  farmer  could  go  about  his  chores.  The  impossibility 
of  her  continuing  to  love  him  struck  him  with  a  new  pang 
of  conviction,  and  ha  felt  helpless  before  it. 

"  Why  don't  you  say  something,  David  ?"  asked  the  girl, 
rapping  her  foot  on  the  floor  and  unconsciously  pulling  the 
kitten's  fur.  "You're  not  angry  with  me,  are  you  ? " 

David  saw  that  he  must  speak,  and  he  determined  to 
dissimulate  no  longer.  "No,  Janet,  but  can't  you  see  how 
it  must  look  to  me  ?  How  can  you  expect  me  to  be  happy 
over  it  ?  Do  you  suppose,  dear,  that  you  could  feel  toward 
me,  after  a  year  at  college,  just  as  you  do  now  ?  Don't  you 
see  how  it  would  separate  us  and  you'd  have  all  your  new 
friends  and  studies  to  take  up  your  time  and  I'd  just  be 
plodding  along  here  in  the  woods  like  a  clod  of  turf  ?  How 
could  you  ever  keep  on  loving  me  ?  Don't  you  see,  Janet, 
how  it  sort  o'  breaks  my  heart  to  say  yes  ?  " 

The  jets  of  milk  shot  into  the  pail  with  an  angry  rapidity. 
The  bar  of  sunlight  lay  almost  horizontally  now  across  the 
upper  emptiness  of  the  barn,  transforming  the  thick-hung 
cobwebs  into  golden  draperies  and  accentuating  the  twi- 
light gloom  below.  Janet  threw  the  kitten  out  of  her 
lap  and,  jumping  from  the  chair,  walked  nervously  to 


HARRY  JAMES  SMITH  91 

the  window  and  looked  out  absently  upon  the  meadow 
below. 

"Well,  I  supposed  it  would  come  to  that,"  she  said,  with 
some  indignation  in  her  voice.  "It's  nice  to  feel  that  you 
can't  trust  me  out  of  your  sight.  Don't  you  think  that  if 
you  really  loved  me  as  you  say  you  'd  be  as  glad  as  I  was 
that  I  could  get  a  better  education  ?  But  of  course,  if  you  're 
afraid  to  trust  me,  why,  I  suppose  I  can  give  it  up." 

The  strain  of  decision  had  been  a  hard  one  for  Janet,  and 
she  was  now  on  the  verge  of  giving  way  under  it.  Her 
shoulders  shook,  and  she  put  her  face  in  her  hands.  David 
heard  her  sobbing  softly. 

"Janet,"  he  said,  "if  you  think  that  this  is  going  to  be 
a  valuable  thing  for  you,  I  'm  not  going  to  say  a  word  against 
it.  You  know  that  every  wish  I've  got  is  for  your  good, 
and  that's  God's  truth.  If  you  think  it's  best  to  go,  I'm 
going  to  try  to  think  so  too,  and  I  '11  do  everything  I  can  to 
make  you  happy." 

Janet  had  left  the  window  and  came  toward  him,  a  joy- 
ful smile  breaking  through  her  tears.  "You  are  a  dear,  good 
boy,  and  I  love  you,"  she  said,  and  allowed  him  to  kiss  her. 
He  held  her  long  in  his  big  arms  and  his  own  eyes  filled  with 
burning  tears. 

He  could  not  banish  the  thought  that  this  might  be  the 
last  time. 


Ill 


The  gray  desolation  of  a  March  afternoon  brooded  out 
over  the  wide  meadows,  out  over  the  dim  woods  beyond, 
and  still  on  to  the  half-visible  hills  in  the  distance,  where 
it  merged  itself  imperceptibly  into  a  low,  lead-colored  sky. 
Though  the  rain  was  not  falling,  everything  dripped  with 
the  damp.  In  front  of  the  Waring  farmhouse  the  road,  wal- 


92  A  WILLIAMS  ANTHOLOGY. 

lowing  with  fat  mud,  stretched  off  in  a  dirty  streak  under 
the  glistening  limbs  of  the  maples.  The  door  of  the  house 
opened  and  David  came  out.  His  mother  followed  him 
anxiously. 

"David,  I  hope  it  isn't  bad  news,"  she  asked,  laying 
her  hand  lightly  on  his  shoulder.  "  Can't  you  tell  me  about 
it?" 

"Not  now,  mother.  It's  nothing  very  unexpected;  I'll 
tell  you  later,  but  I  'd  rather  wait  a  little  while."  He  pushed 
open  the  gate  and  stepped  out  into  the  road,  his  heavy 
boots  sinking  in  to  half  their  height. 

The  mother  watched  him  with  strained  attention  as  he 
set  off  towards  the  barn.  There  was  a  sort  of  savage  aim- 
lessness  in  his  gait.  His  shoulders  were  bent  forward,  his 
hands  thrust  deep  into  his  pockets,  and  he  looked  neither 
to  the  one  side  nor  the  other  of  the  road.  At  the  barnyard 
gate  he  seemed  to  hesitate  a  second,  then  turned  in,  and  the 
small,  gray-haired  woman  on  the  step  sighed  and  went  back 
into  the  house. 

David  strode  deliberately  through  the  yard  and  out  of 
the  gate  on  the  other  side  —  the  one  that  opened  on  the 
sloping  meadow  behind  the  barn.  Not  a  living  thing  was  in 
sight.  A  chill,  white  fog  had  slowly  settled  over  the  land, 
obliterating  outline  and  color,  toning  everything  down  to 
a  monotonous  sameness  of  appearance  —  a  flat,  unrelieved 
vacancy.  David  walked  on  mechanically,  unmindful  of 
any  destination  or  definite  purpose  ;  a  dumb  bitterness  wrung 
his  heart,  and,  in  comparison  with  that,  all  that  was  exter- 
nal and  objective  seemed  unaccountable.  Involuntarily 
he  thrust  his  hand  into  his  coat  and  drew  out  a  letter.  He 
had  read  it  twice  already. 


DEAR  DAVID,  —  I  hardly  know  how  I  am  to  tell 
you  what  I  know  I  must  tell  you  —  and  if  not  now,  certainly 


HARRY  JAMES  SMITH  93 

before  many  more  weeks  pass.  Let  me  admit  then  first  of 
all  that  you  were  right  in  your  anticipation  of  what  college 
life  would  do  for  me.  It  has  changed  my  ways  of  looking  at 
things  more  than  I  can  tell  you,  and  things  that  once  seemed 
very  beautiful  to  me  are  so  no  longer.  This  was  inevitable 
and  we  need  not  regret  it,  for  I  know  that  the  aggregate 
enjoyment  of  life  has  been  increased,  at  least  potentially. 
You  may  know  that  your  brother  Loren  spent  part  of  his 
Christmas  vacation  here,  and  he  has  just  been  here  again 
for  a  flying  visit.  Need  I  tell  you  the  result,  David  ?  I  think 
you  foresaw  it  long  ago,  and  I  cannot  of  course  feel  sad  that 
things  have  come  about  in  this  way,  though  I  realize  that 
for  a  time,  at  least,  it  may  be  hard  for  you  to  understand  it. 
But  there  are  many  interests  we  have  in  common,  he  and  I; 
I  know  that  you  will  see  sometime  that  we  were  made  for 
each  other  and  that  you  will  be  happy  with  us  in  our  great 
happiness. 

"I  doubt  whether  this  news  will  much  surprise  you,  for 
I  know,  from  the  tenor  of  your  latest  letters,  you  have 
noticed  a  change  and  have  been  suspicious  of  the  truth.  ..." 

Ah,  yes,  he  had  noticed  it  and  had  had  suspicions;  but 
to  have  it  come  to  this,  and  so  suddenly  —  it  was  more  than 
he  could  bear.  His  throat  ached  and  his  hands  were  wet 
with  perspiration.  He  looked  up  into  the  sky  and  saw  no- 
thing there  to  help  him  —  nothing  but  a  roofless  expanse  of 
drizzling  gray  fog.  Not  a  bird  chirped  in  the  distance.  The 
brook  down  below  him  ran  on  silently  without  an  audible 
ripple.  Everything  was  silent  and  motionless.  If  only  a  cow 
would  low  or  a  hen  would  cackle  back  in  the  barnyard,  life 
would  be  a  bit  more  tolerable.  It  was  as  if  all  the  world 
had  become  soulless  and  dead. 

How  he  had  loved  her!  .  .  .  No  other  thought  could  find 
entrance  in  his  mind  .  .  .  and  now,  it  was  all  over.  She  be- 


94  A  WILLIAMS  ANTHOLOGY 

longed  to  some  one  else  and  had  left  him  without  a  thought, 
almost,  of  the  pain  it  was  going  to  bring  him.  "Hard  to 
understand!"  She  was  wrong:  he  had  understood  it  from 
the  first,  and  far  better  than  she.  Had  he  not  told  her  so 
that  afternoon  when  they  sat  together  in  the  barn  ?  But 
understanding  it  made  it  no  more  easy  to  bear.  He  won- 
dered whether  he  could  bear  it.  He  seemed  so  cruelly  alone  ' 
with  his  sorrow.  The  silence  seemed  shouting  at  him. 

Suddenly,  without  knowing  why,  he  looked  back  to  the 
barn.  A  little  figure,  wrapped  in  a  plaid  shawl,  was  coming 
towards  him:  it  was  his  mother.  A  sharp  thrill  of  tenderness 
ran  through  him.  "Poor  little  mother,"  he  said  softly, 
"you  are  longing  to  help  me,"  and,  somewhat  ashamed  of 
the  way  in  which  he  had  left  her  recently,  he  turned  and 
walked  back  to  meet  her. 

"  Come  with  me  to  the  barn,"  she  said,  and  together  they 
returned,  silently,  each  timid  of  the  other.  Entering  the 
building  they  sat  down  on  the  hay,  side  by  side.  "Read 
that,  mother,"  he  said,  and  handed  her  the  letter.  She 
glanced  it  through,  and  then,  taking  his  hand  in  hers,  fal- 
tered gently,  " My  poor  boy!  I  can  guess  what  it  must  mean 
to  you." 

He  put  his  head  down  in  her  lap  and  sobbed  like  a  child, 
while  she  stroked  his  hair  and  face  and  spoke  shy  words  of 
sympathy. 

"David,"  she  said,  "it  was  for  your  father  and  me  that 
you  gave  up  college.  Perhaps  you  think  we  don't  appreci- 
ate it,  because  we  never  say  much.  I  know  what  it  has  cost 
you  and  how  nobly  you  have  stuck  to  your  duty,  and  you 
know  that  in  God's  sight  whatever  may  come  of  it  you 
have  done  the  kindest  thing." 

"Oh,  but  mother,  that  doesn't  make  it  any  easier  to 
lose  Janet.  She  was  so  much  to  me,  and  we  were  going  to 
be  so  happy  together." 


HARRY  JAMES  SMITH 


95 


"Hush,  little  boy,  you  must  n't  take  it  so  hard.  Perhaps 
some  day  you'll  see  that  it  was  for  the  best." 

The  afternoon  light  was  fading  and  the  rain  was  begin- 
ning to  fall  softly  outside.  In  the  dimming  light  the  two 
continued  sitting  there  together,  hardly  speaking  a  word, 
for  what  comfort  could  words  bring  ?  And  slowly  a  vague 
peacefulness  began  to  fall  upon  his  heart  under  the  gentle 
touch  of  his  mother,  and  rising,  he  kissed  her  silently  and 
went  out  to  his  work. 

Literary  Monthly,  1902. 


THE  ENDITING  OF  LETTERS 

STUART  P.  SHERMAN   '03 

"Now for  enditing  of  Letters:  alas,  what  need  wee  much  adoe  about 
a  little  matter?" 

IN  a  letter  to  Miss  Sara  Hennel,  George  Eliot  writes  that 
"  there  are  but  two  kinds  of  regular  correspondence  possible 
—  one  of  simple  affection,  which  gives  a  picture  of  all  the 
details,  painful  and  pleasurable,  that  a  loving  heart  pines 
after  .  .  .  ,  and  one  purely  moral  and  intellectual,  carried 
on  for  the  sake  of  ghostly  edification  in  which  each  party 
has  to  put  salt  on  the  tails  of  all  sorts  of  ideas  on  all  sorts 
of  subjects."  These  two  classes  embrace,  perhaps,  the 
great  bulk  of  letters,  but  George  Eliot  says  there  is  a  third 
class  to  which  her  correspondence  with  Miss  Hennel  be- 
longs —  one  of  impulse.  Strictly  speaking,  all  of  the  letters 
which  really  belong  as  such  to  literature  come  under  this 
last  head.  The  result  of  a  perfect  fusion  of  the  two  other 
styles,  they  exhibit  a  sparkle,  a  pungency,  and  lightness  of 
touch,  which  take  the  curse  from  mere  gossip,  supple  the 
joints  of  intellectual  disquisition,  and  mark  unmistakably 
the  epistolary  artist.  The  letter- writer,  no  less  than  the  poet, 
is  born,  not  made,  and  his  art,  though  for  the  most  part  un- 
conscious, is  no  less  an  art.  The  expression  of  every  senti- 
ment, the  choice  of  every  word,  however  random  it  may 
seem,  is  determined  for  the  born  enditer  of  epistles  by  a  sense 
of  fitness  so  exquisite  that  its  niceties  of  distinction  escape 
analysis  and  only  its  more  general  principles  can  be  enun- 
ciated. 

The  most  vital  of  these  principles  is  pretty  generally 
observed.  Thackeray  perceives  it  when  at  the  close  of  a 
delightful  letter  to  Mrs.  Brookfield  he  exclaims,  "Why, 

96 


STUART  P.  SHERMAN  97 

this  is  almost  as  good  as  talk! "  He  was  right:  it  was  written 
talk.  If  read  aloud  with  pauses  for  the  correspondent's 
reply,  the  perfect  letter  would  make  perfect  conversation. 
It  should  call  up  the  voice,  gesture,  and  bearing  of  the 
writer.  Though  it  may  be  more  studied  than  oral  speech, 
it  must  appear  no  less  impromptu.  This,  indeed,  is  its  es- 
sential charm,  that  it  contains  the  mind's  first  fruits  with 
the  bloom  on,  that  it  exhale  carelessly  the  mixed  fragrance 
of  the  spirit  like  a  handful  of  wild  flowers  not  sorted  for  the 
parlor  table  but,  as  gathered  among  the  fields,  haphazard, 
with  here  a  violet,  there  a  spice  of  mint,  a  strawberry  blos- 
som from  the  hillside,  and  a  sprig  of  bittersweet.  Thjs  is 
the  opportunity  for  the  clergyman  to  show  that  he  is  not 
all  theologian,  but  part  naturalist;  the  farmer  that  he  is  not 
all  ploughman,  but  part  philosopher.  This  is  the  place  for 
little  buds  of  sentiment,  short  flights  of  poetry,  wise  ser- 
mons all  in  three  lines,  odd  conceits,  small  jests  rubbing 
noses  with  deacon-browed  moralities;  in  short,  for  every  fine 
extravagance  in  which  the  mind  at  play  delights.  Sickness 
and  sorrow,  too,  and  death,  if  spoken  of  reverently  and 
bravely,  must  not  be  denied  a  place.  So  we  shall  have  a 
letter  now  all  grave,  now  all  gay,  but  generally,  if  it  be  a 
good  letter,  part  grave,  part  gay,  just  as  the  mingled  threads 
are  clipped  from  the  webs  of  life. 

That  such  a  letter  cannot  be  written  with  white  gloves 
goes  without  saying.  The  first  requisite  is  freedom  from 
stiffness.  The  realm  of  good  letters  is  a  republic  in  which 
no  man  need  lift  his  hat  to  another.  It  is  hail-fellow  well 
met,  or  not  met  at  all.  So  when  the  humble  address  their 
superiors,  or  when  children  write  to  austere  grandfathers, 
they  suffer  from  an  awkwardness  of  mental  attitude  which 
is  the  paralysis  of  all  spontaneity.  Before  the  indispensable 
ease  can  exist,  certain  relations  of  equality  must  be  estab- 
lished. But  there  are  some  whose  fountains  of  speech,  in 


98  A  WILLIAMS  ANTHOLOGY 

letters  as  in  conversation,  lie  forever  above  the  line  of  per- 
petual snow.  They  never  thaw  out.  Bound  by  a  sort  of 
viscosity  of  spirits,  that  peculiar  stamp  of  the  Anglo- 
Saxon  temperament,  they  are  incapable  of  getting  their 
thoughts  and  emotions  under  way;  with  the  best  will  in 
the  world,  genuine  warmth  of  feeling,  minds  stocked  with 
information  on  all  subjects,  they  are  never  fluent.  The  man 
with  no  ear  must  not  hope  to  be  a  musician,  nor  the  man 
with  no  fluency  a  letter-writer.  Yet  this  is  not  all.  You  will 
find  some  at  perfect  ease  in  conversation  who,  touching  pen 
to  paper,  exhibit  the  affected  primness  commonly  ascribed 
to  the  maiden  aunt.  They  have  not  learned  that  this  is  a 
place  where  words  must  speak  for  themselves  without  com- 
ment of  inflection,  gesture  of  the  hand,  or  interpreting 
smile.  Here  to  be  unaffected  one  must  take  thought.  As 
on  the  stage  a  natural  hue  must  be  obtained  by  unnatural 
means,  so  in  the  writing  of  letters  one  must  a  trifle  overdo 
in  order  to  do  but  ordinarily.  A  word  which  rings  on  the 
lips  with  frank  cordiality  will  stare  coldly  from  the  written 
page  and  must  be  heightened  to  avoid  offense.  This  is  a 
license  requiring  the  exercise  of  moderation  and  the  utmost 
tact.  Not  all  expressions  suitable  for  conversation  need  re- 
inforcement in  black  and  white.  In  speaking  one  frequently 
raps  out  a  phrase  whose  literalness  one's  eyes  warn  the  lis- 
tener to  question.  These  must  be  toned  down  or  glossed. 
An  example  of  the  toned  down  variety,  which  illustrates 
as  well  men's  fondness  for  assailing  their  friends  with  oppro- 
brious epithet,  is  offered  by  Darwin  when  he  writes,  "I 
cannot  conclude  without  telling  you  that  of  all  blackguards 
you  are  the  greatest  and  best."  If  Darwin  had  been  talking 
face  to  face  with  Fox,  he  would  doubtless  have  called  him  a 
blooming  blackguard  outright. 

A  writer  in  a  journal  of  psychology  points  out  the  strong 
psychic  link  existing  between  a  certain  short  expletive  of 


STUART  P.  SHERMAN  99 

condemnation  and  a  refractory  collar-button.  These  words 
seem  to  come  at  times  charged  with  the  very  marrow  of  the 
mind,  and,  if  the  letters  of  a  man  who  occasionally  indulges 
in  them  be  wholly  purged  of  them,  the  letters  lose  one  of 
their  most  distinctive  characteristics.  The  point  to  be  made 
is,  that  the  personal  word  is  all-important,  that  till  the  fact 
is  related  to  the  writer,  it  is  dead.  If  we  want  news,  we  can 
consult  the  dailies;  but  in  letters  facts  are  little,  ideas  about 
facts  everything.  That  is  to  say,  all  events,  especially  the 
more  trifling,  should  be  shown  through  the  colored  glass  of 
the  writer's  personality.  What  concerns  you  is  not  what 
happened,  but  what  relations  the  happening  bears  to  you 
and  your  correspondent. 

When  once  the  personal  vein  is  struck,  nothing  is  so  easy 
as  to  find  a  theme  for  a  letter.  The  materials  are  only  too 
plentiful  if  the  eyes  and  heart  are  open  to  receive  them. 
Stevenson  wrote  that  he  scarcely  pulled  a  weed  in  his  gar- 
den without  pondering  some  fit  phrase  to  report  the  fact 
to  his  friend  Colvin,  and  we  may  be  sure  that  the  weed  was 
not  allowed  to  wither,  but  when  it  was  transplanted,  flour- 
ished again  and  reached  its  destination  in  a  veritable  Pot  of 
Basil.  No  great  events  are  necessary;  the  plainest  incident, 
the  morning's  shopping,  is  as  good  as  a  Pan-American  ex- 
position for  ideas  to  crystallize  about,  since  exactly  in  pro- 
portion as  an  event  is  embedded  in  opinion,  comment,  and 
feeling,  must  its  value  as  an  epistolary  item  be  rated.  While 
the  born  letter-writer  is  driving  a  nail  or  polishing  a  shoe,  a 
thought  apropos  of  his  occupation  or  of  stars,  perhaps,  drops 
complete  and  perfect  like  ripe  fruit  in  an  orchard.  It  matters 
little;  seen  through  the  eyes  of  a  friend,  all  homely  things 
are  invested  with  an  extrinsic  interest  and  a  new  glory  not 
their  own. 

...  By  the  very  nature  of  the  composition  a  mean  man 
cannot  possibly  write  a  good  letter.    When  we  cast  about 


ioo  A  WILLIAMS  ANTHOLOGY 

for  a  perfect  exemplar  of  the  epistolary  style,  we  must  of 
necessity  look  among  the  high-souled  men  —  Cowper, 
Lamb,  FitzGerald,  Hearn  —  for  where  else  shall  we  find 
one  to  stand  the  test  of  self -revelation?  Happily,  one  of 
the  blithest,  manliest,  completest  spirits  of  our  times  was  a 
matchless  writer  of  letters  —  Stevenson.  Aching  for  abso- 
lute honesty  of  style  and  making  clearness  almost  synono- 
mous  with  good  morals,  he  has  given  us  in  the  Vailima  col- 
lection and  in  the  two  larger  volumes  of  his  correspondence 
an  almost  unexampled  self -revelation.  The  man  Stevenson 
is  in  them,  "his  essence  and  his  sting."  The  grip  of  his 
hand  and  the  look  of  his  eye  lose  none  of  their  force  in  the 
transparent  medium  through  which  they  are  constrained 
to  pass.  Knowing  that  a  man  who  constantly  gives  his 
best  finds  his  best  constantly  growing  better,  he  never 
hoarded  his  ideas  for  publication,  but  poured  his  intellect- 
ual riches  into  a  note  to  a  friend  as  freely  as  if  each  line 
were  coining  him  gold.  It  results  that  the  lover  of  Steven- 
son would  almost  prefer  to  give  up  all  the  romances  rather 
than  the  letters.  For  they  feel  that  in  this  correspondence, 
besides  finding  the  qualities  which  distinguish  the  other 
works,  they  have  met  face  to  face  and  known  personally 
the  romancer,  the  essayist,  the  poet,  and  above  all  the  man 
who,  ridden  by  an  incubus  of  disease,  spoke  always  of  the 
joy  of  living,  the  man  who  knew  hours  of  bitterness  but 
none  of  flinching,  the  man  who  grappled  with  his  destiny 
undaunted,  and,  when  death  hunted  him  down  in  a  South 
Sea  island,  fell  gallantly  and  gazing  unabashed  into  "the 
bright  eyes  of  danger." 

Stevenson  approached  close  to  the  beau  ideal  of  episto- 
lary art.  When  we  and  our  friends  have  achieved  it,  dis- 
tance will  be  annihilated  and  there  will  be  no  such  thing 
as  separation.  We  shall  draw  from  our  little  box  a  small 
white  packet,  and,  though  Nostradamus  may  offer  us  every 


STUART  P.  SHERMAN        ,,   ,    ,    IQI 

secret  of  magician  or  alchemist  in1  exchange  for  it,  we  shall 
refuse  offhand.  How  shall  he  lure  us  with  a  shadow,  a 
ghostly  visitant,  savoring  of  the  pit  and  summoned  only 
by  the  most  marrow-freezing  incantations?  Here  in  our 
hand  is  a  mysterious,  more  potent  charm,  bringing  us 
the  warm,  human  personality  of  the  man.  We  are  not  spirit- 
ualists, yet  here  sealed  in  the  white  packet  is  an  incorporal 
presence.  Given  but  a  mastery  of  the  twenty-six  signs  and 
their  combinations,  and  lo,  the  heart  of  our  friend  served 
up  in  Boston  bond!  Then,  as  for  enditing  of  letters,  we  shall 
rise  up  and  call  them  blessed  who  have  made  "much  ado 
about  a  little  matter." 
Literary  Monthly,  1901. 


GREYLOCK 

MAX  EASTMAN  '05 

THIS  whole,  far-reaching  host  of  ancient  hills 
That  all  thy  kingdom's  rugged  boundary  fills, 
Yields  thee  unrivalled  thy  supremacy. 
'T  is  not  by  chance  that  they  thus  kneel  to  thee; 
Those  scars,  that  but  increase  thy  grandeur,  tell 
Of  battles  thou  hast  fought  —  and  hast  fought  well, 
For,  conquered  at  thy  feet,  two  giants  lie 
Who  once  did  dare  their  sovereign  to  defy. 
When  earth  with  sea,  and  earth  with  earth,  and  sea 
With  sea,  all  mingled,  fought  for  mastery, 
Then  didst  thou  meet  thy  foes,  and  by  thy  might 
Didst  win,  and  since  hath  kept,  thy  regal  right. 
Literary  Monthly,  1901. 


102 


TO  SIDNEY  LANIER 

MAX  EASTMAN  '05 

THY  name  is  not  the  highest  in  thy  art, 

Though  music  sweet  thou  singest  in  thy  songs 
That  unto  thee  alone  of  all  belongs, 

Uplifting  Love  in  every  burdened  heart ; 

Thou  hast  not  left  us  perfect  poetry; 
But  thou  hast  left  by  far  a  greater  thing, 
A  poem  such  as  man  did  never  sing  — 

Thine  own  brave  life,  a  lifelong  victory. 
Literary  Monthly,  1902. 


103 


THE  LIFTING  OF  THE  CLOUDS 

SHEPARD  ASHMAN  MORGAN  '06 

ALL  day  long  a  reeking  mist  had  been  rolling  across  the 
valley,  at  times  all  but  obscuring  the  Peak  where  it  rose 
between  its  pair  of  flanking  hills.  Sifting  clouds  had  surged 
and  seethed  in  the  Cleft,  as  those  who  dwelt  in  its  vicinity 
called  the  interval  between  the  two  hills  and  the  loftier 
and  more  distant  Peak,  and  rose  now  and  then  barely 
enough  to  reveal  the  greater  mountain,  but  never  yet  had 
quite  cleared  the  summit.  The  mist  had  slimed  the  whole 
world  with  a  coating  of  wet,  and  when  the  wind  chanced  to 
set  the  bare  limbs  of  the  trees  to  swaying,  the  drops  would 
spatter  on  the  ground  and  scarcely  be  absorbed,  so  water- 
logged was  the  earth. 

Mrs.  Trent  rolled  up  her  knitting  in  a  napkin,  picked  a 
few  stray  bits  of  yarn  from  her  black  dress,  and  stepped  to 
the  window.  She  looked  out  across  the"  valley  toward  the 
Cleft  to  see  if  perchance  the  clouds  would  open  enough  to 
permit  her  a  view  of  the  Peak.  Not  once,  but  many  times 
that  day  had  she  arisen  from  her  work  to  search  for  a 
glimpse  of  the  mountain,  but  every  time  she  had  failed. 

"No,  it's  hidden,  still  hidden,"  she  murmured  half  aloud. 
"  It  is  hard  to  be  shut  up  here  with  my  thoughts,  —  with 
such  thoughts.  I  wish  the  clouds  would  lift  and  let  me  see 
the  Peak.  Then  I  am  sure  that  things  would  not  seem  so 
dark.  If  I  could  only  get  one  glimpse,  I  would  feel  almost, 
yes,  almost  as  though  Doctor  McMurray  had  been  here  and 
had  told  me  he  was  sorry." 

She  stood  looking  out  the  window  for  a  time,  but  the 
clouds  only  gathered  more  heavily  in  the  Cleft  and  the 
Peak  remained  shrouded  in  the  mist.  At  last  she  turned 

104 


SHEPARD  ASHMAN  MORGAN  105 

wearily  back  toward  her  chair,  and  was  about  to  resume  her 
knitting  when  her  ear  caught  the  sound  of  wheels  pausing 
before  the  house.  She  hastened  across  the  room  toward  the 
door  and  threw  it  open  with  a  gesture  of  fear,  as  though  she 
had  been  anticipating  the  coming  of  unwelcome  visitors 
and  now  had  reason  to  suppose  that  they  had  arrived. 
The  tremor  of  suspense,  however,  quickly  passed,  for  she 
saw  outside  no  less  a  person  than  Doctor  McMurray 
himself. 

" Doctor,"  she  called,  "put  your  horse  in  the  barn  and 
come  in.  It  does  my  heart  good  to  see  you." 

Presently  the  door  opened  and  the  old  minister's  face 
appeared,  that  face  which  had  looked  in  at  every  house  in 
the  valley  whenever  trouble  brooded  there,  and  always  had 
brought  with  it  good  cheer  and  hope  for  now  close  upon 
half-a-century. 

"A  wet  day,  Mrs.  Trent,  a  wet  day.  But  seems  to  me 
there  are  signs  of  clearing.  It  is  always  much  pleasanter  to 
look  for  fair  weather  than  for  foul,  don't  you  think  so?" 

Mrs.  Trent  nodded. 

"Doctor  McMurray,"  she  said,  "I  was  almost  afraid  to 
go  to  the  door  when  I  heard  you  drive  up;  I  thought  the 
lawyers  might  be  coming  already." 

"The  lawyers?"  he  echoed.  "What,  can  they  be  trou- 
bling you  again  ?  " 

"Yes,  I  got  a  letter  from  the  district  attorney's  office 
yesterday  saying  that  he  would  send  a  couple  of  men  out 
to-day." 

"I'm  sorry  to  hear  that,  Mrs.  Trent,  for  I  know  it  will  be 
hard  for  you  to  go  over  the  thing  again.  I  had  hoped  that 
when  your  husband's  trial  was  over  they  would  let  you 
alone.  Now  that  poor  Jacob  has  paid  the  biggest  price  a 
man  can  pay,  it  seems  that  common  decency  ought  to  keep 
them  from  worrying  you  about  the  matter  any  more." 


io6  A  WILLIAMS  ANTHOLOGY 

"Well,"  she  said,  clasping  her  hands  and  looking  ab- 
sently out  the  window,  "I  presume  they  want  to  make  quite 
sure.  Mrs.  Withey's  case  is  coming  up  again  the  first  of  the 
week,  you  know,  and  there  must  be  no  mistake." 

"But  I  can't  see  how  there  can  be  any  mistake,"  ex- 
claimed the  doctor.  "At  Jacob's  trial  everything  was  so 
clear,  his  guilt  was  so  fixed,  that  there  seemed  no  chance  for 
a  mistake.  Mrs.  Trent,  it  looked  to  me,  prejudiced  in  favor 
of  your  husband  as  I  was,  that  there  could  be  no  doubt  that 
Jacob  gave  old  Mr.  Withey  the  arsenic  and  that  Mrs. 
Withey  was  his  equally  guilty  accomplice.  I  think  this  sec- 
ond trial  must  only  be  a  repetition  of  the  first,  and  that  Mrs. 
Withey  must  be  found  the  murderess  of  Andrew  Withey, 
just  as  Jacob  Trent  was  proven  murderer." 

Mrs.  Trent  leaned  forward  in  her  chair.  Her  hands  were 
clenched  and  every  muscle  in  her  frail  body  was  drawn 
tense.  The  look  in  her  eyes  startled  the  good  doctor,  and, 
thinking  that  he  had  recalled  too  harshly  the  ugliness  of  her 
husband's  crime,  hastened  to  make  amends. 

"Mrs.  Trent,"  he  said,  "I  am  sorry  that  I  spoke  so.  It 
was  cruel  of  me." 

"No,  no,"  the  woman  answered  thickly,  "I  am  used  to 
that,  it  does  n't  shock  me  to  hear  so  much  about  Jacob  now. 
But  tell  me,  doctor,  tell  me,  are  you  sure  she  will  not  get  off? 
Will  they  treat  her  as  they  did  Jacob?" 

"What,  Mrs.  Trent,  you  surely  would  n't  wish  trouble  to 
any  fellow  creature  if  it  could  be  avoided,  would  you?" 

"Doctor  McMurray,"  replied  Mrs.  Trent  in  a  very  low 
voice  which  seemed  to  come  from  her  inmost  soul,  "Doctor 
McMurray,  that  woman  robbed  me  of  my  husband,  of 
Jacob,  and  then  led  him  to  a  murderer's  grave.  That  is  so. 
Do  you  know,  now  that  so  many  weeks  have  gone  by  since 
they  took  Jacob  away,  sometimes  I  feel  that  he  is  true  to 
me  somewhere,  and  that  she,  that  woman,  was  the  one  who 


SHEPARD  ASHMAN  MORGAN  107 

led  him  on  to  do  wrong.  You  ask  me  if  I  would  see  any  fellow 
creature  suffer.  I  answer  no;  but  I  say  too  that  that  woman 
has  no  claim  to  be  fellow  creature  to  any  human  being. 
She  robbed  me  of  my  husband." 

For  a  time  the  two  sat  in  silence.  The  rain  continued  to 
drip,  drip  from  the  eaves,  and  the  Cleft  was  still  clogged 
with  mist.  Then  the  old  doctor  broke  the  silence. 

"I  am  afraid  we  do  wrong,  Mrs.  Trent,  hi  brooding  over 
these  troubles  of  ours.  Heaven  knows  you  have  provocation. 
There  seems  to  be  no  doubt  but  that  your  husband  gave 
arsenic  to  old  Mr.  Withey,  and  it  seems  the  more  grievous 
when  we  think  that  the  natural  ailments  of  the  old  man 
must  soon  have  hurried  him  across  the  Great  River  in  any 
case.  It  is  also  true  that  he  did  it  for  the  love  of  a  woman 
whose  youth  and  beauty  he  conceived  to  have  won  him 
heart  and  soul.  But,  Mrs.  Trent,  it  is  also  a  fact  that  we  are 
here  to  live  above  these  things,  hard  as  they  may  seem,  and 
to  forgive  those  who  do  us  ill." 

Mrs.  Trent  rose  from  her  chair  and  stepped  toward  the 
window  which  looked  out  toward  the  Peak.  Her  hands, 
which  she  had  folded  behind  her  back,  worked  convulsively. 

"The  Peak,"  she  said  at  last.  "  The  Peak  is  covered  with 
clouds;  I  cannot  see.  Forgive  —  forgive  her?  All  is  cloudy, 
I  cannot  see." 

Doctor  McMurray,  being  no  common  man,  said  not  a 
word.  He  softly  rose  and  took  his  stand  beside  Mrs.  Trent 
at  the  window.  For  some  time  the  two  stood  looking  out 
over  the  valley,  watching  the  heavy,  leaden  clouds  as  they 
banked  themselves  up  against  the  opposite  hillside.  The 
rain  continued  to  trickle  from  the  eaves,  the  only  sound 
audible  above  the  breathing  of  the  man  and  woman.  At 
last  Doctor  McMurray  broke  the  silence. 

"It  seems  to  me  the  clouds  are  n't  lying  quite  so  low  on 
the  hills  as  they  were.  I  would  n't  be  surprised  if  it  was  going 
to  clear  up." 


io8  A  WILLIAMS  ANTHOLOGY 

Mrs.  Trent  looked  at  the  old  man  for  a  moment,  and  saw 
his  meaning. 

"Perhaps,"  she  said  doubtfully,  "perhaps." 

Doctor  McMurray  moved  away  from  the  window  and 
began  to  draw  on  his  overcoat. 

"Why,  you're  not  going,  doctor?"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Trent 
with  a  note  of  distress  in  her  voice,  as  her  eye  took  in  his 
action. 

"Yes,  I  'm  sorry,  Mrs.  Trent,  but  I  must  look  in  at  old  Mr. 
Gebhart's  on  the  way  down.  The  poor  man  has  stomach 
trouble,  I  believe  —  they  say  it 's  just  the  same  thing  that 
Mr.  Withey  had  —  and  I  think  he'll  be  looking  for  me." 

"Doctor,  you  're  so  kind,"  Mrs.  Trent  interjected. 
"You're  always  keeping  an  eye  out  for  the  unfortunate. 
But  look  here.  I  've  got  some  medicine  out  here  in  the  pantry, 
some  Epsom  salts,  which  they  used  to  come  and  get  for  old 
Mr.  Withey.  They  used  to  tell  me  it  did  him  a  lot  of  good. 
I  wish  you  could  wait  till  I  get  a  little  for  Mr.  Gebhart." 

Mrs.  Trent  hastened  from  the  room,  and  Doctor  McMur- 
ray heard  her  moving  pans  and  bottles  on  the  shelves  as 
though  she  were  in  search  of  the  medicine.  Suddenly  the 
sound  ceased;  he  waited  a  minute  or  two,  pacing  uneasily 
up  and  down  the  room,  with  the  thought  of  the  sick  old  man 
heavy  upon  his  mind.  At  last  he  called: 

"Mrs.  Trent,  can't  I  help  you?  Don't  trouble  if  you  can't 
find  it  easily." 

No  answer  reached  his  ears  for  a  moment.  Then  Mrs. 
Trent  emerged  from  the  pantry  walking  unsteadily,  as 
though  she  carried  a  terrific  weight.  Doctor  McMurray 
was  at  her  side  in  an  instant,  and  led  her  to  a  chair. 

"Tell  me,"  he  urged,  "what  is  it  ?  What  is  the  trouble  ?" 

Mrs.  Trent  covered  her  face  with  her  hands,  and  her 
slender  figure  bent  silently  before  the  strength  of  her  emo- 
tion. 


SHEPARD  ASHMAN  MORGAN  109 

"Look,"  she  moaned  at  last ;  "go  and  look  for  yourself. 
There  are  two  of  them,  two." 

Doctor  McMurray  obeyed.  He  went  into  the  pantry,  and 
there  on  a  shelf  stood  two  wide-mouthed  bottles,  very  much 
alike  save  that  one  had  never  been  opened.  He  looked  at 
them  in  silent  wonderment,  not  knowing  for  the  instant 
what  message  they  conveyed.  He  picked  them  up  and  read 
the  labels;  then  he  had  an  inkling  of  what  they  meant,  for 
one  was  marked  "Arsenic,"  the  other  "Epsom  Salts."  He 
went  back  to  Mrs.  Trent. 

"You  think  there  has  been  a  mistake?"  he  said  softly. 

Mrs.  Trent  raised  her  head  from  her  hands.  Her  voice 
was  strained  and  unnatural  as  she  answered: 

"I  know  there  has  been  a  mistake,  and  I  know  that  I 
made  it." 

"Tell  me  why." 

"It  is  very  simple.  They  sent  up  from  Mr.  Withey's 
that  last  night  for  some  Epsom  salts  in  a  great  hurry.  I 
knew  there  must  be  some  great  need,  so  I  rushed  to  the  pan- 
try. Jacob  was  n't  at  home.  I  reached  to  the  top  shelf  and 
pulled  down  a  bottle,  one  of  those  bottles.  In  my  hurry  I 
did  n't  look  at  the  label,  but  poured  the  little  white  crystals 
out  in  a  paper,  and  they  took  them  away.  Then  I  put  the 
bottle  back  in  its  place  and  went  on  with  my  work.  In  the 
morning  I  heard  Mr.  Withey  was  dead." 

"But  the  arsenic  —  the  arsenic,"  interposed  the  doctor. 
"How  did  it  get  there?" 

"Heaven  knows;  you  remember  Jacob  used  to  get  it  once 
in  a  while  to  keep  his  horses  in  condition.  I  presume  he  got  a 
fresh  bottle  of  it  about  the  same  time  I  got  some  more  Epsom 
salts,  and  they  were  both  put  up  there  on  the  top  shelf  to- 
gether. It  is  all  too  plain.  I  got  the  bottles  mixed  and 
opened  the  wrong  one." 

"And  so  Jacob  was  innocent?" 


no  A  WILLIAMS  ANTHOLOGY 

"Yes,  and  I  could  have  saved  him  if  I  had  known  in  time. 
Oh,  Jacob,  Jacob,"  she  moaned,  compressing  a  world  of 
remorse  into  the  words.  "And  it  was  my  mistake  —  my 
mistake!" 

"Then  Mrs.  Withey  is  innocent,  too,"  said  Doctor 
McMurray.  "  Don't  you  make  it  out  so?  " 

Mrs.  Trent  looked  up  sharply.  It  seemed  as  though  she 
had  for  the  moment  forgotten  her  lesser  trouble  in  the  new 
consciousness  of  the  greater.  The  mention  of  the  other 
woman's  name  brought  back  all  the  profound  sense  of  wrong 
which  she  knew  she  had  suffered  at  her  hands. 

"Mrs.  Withey  —  innocent  I"  she  gasped. 

"Yes,  she  is  innocent,  and  you  have  the  power  of  saving 
her  life." 

"  Doctor  McMurray,  that  woman  robbed  me  of  my  hus- 
band —  both  of  his  love  and  of  his  memory."  Mrs.  Trent 
was  in  deadly  earnest. 

"But  —  she  is  innocent,  and  you  can  save  her  from  a 
wretch's  death,"  the  old  man  repeated. 

"  Save  her  —  her,  who  stands  in  my  mind  for  all  that  I 
ought  to  hate?" 

"Mrs.  Trent,"  Doctor  McMurray  said  in  a  low  voice, 
"you  ought  to  hate  no-one,  not  even  if  he  uses  you  as 
Mrs.  Withey  has  used  you.  If  we  keep  on  hating  the 
clouds  will  never  lift." 

Mrs.  Trent  rose  heavily  from  her  chair  and  labored  from 
her  window  that  she  might  look  out  across  the  valley  toward 
the  Peak.  Her  voice  was  hoarse  as  she  answered: 

"Oh,  I'm  afraid  the  clouds  will  never  lift.  The  hatred  of 
that  woman  is  like  a  fog  which  closes  in  upon  my  soul,  and 
shuts  off  every  beam  of  sunshine.  I  can't  see  through  it,  and 
the  heaviness  of  it  chokes  me.  The  clouds  will  never  lift." 

The  old  minister  came  up  beside  her,  and  stood  looking 
for  a  time  out  toward  the  Peak.  The  mist  which  all  day  had 


SHEPARD  ASHMAN  MORGAN  in 

hung  so  low  around  the  foot  of  the  hills  had  risen  appreci- 
ably, and  now  the  Cleft  itself  was  beginning  to  clear,  re- 
vealing the  dark  base  of  the  Peak  itself.  A  single  ray  of  sun- 
shine shot  out  of  the  west  and  struck  straight  into  the  Cleft. 
"Look,  look,  Mrs.  Trent,"  exclaimed  Doctor  McMurray. 
"The  Peak  is  beginning  to  show.  Don't  you  think  the 
weather  will  clear?  Ah,  it  must  clear,  it  must  before  they 
come,  before  the  lawyers  come.  Tell  me,  do  you  not  think 
it  will?" 

Mrs.  Trent's  face  was  very  pale.  Her  eyes  gleamed  very 
large  and  feverishly  bright  from  beneath  her  lashes,  as  they 
searched  the  opposite  side  of  the  valley.  For  some  moments 
she  kept  silent,  and  for  the  second  time  that  afternoon  there 
was  no  sound  in  the  room  save  the  labored  breathing  of  the 
man  and  woman.  At  last  there  became  audible  the  slowly 
increasing  creak  of  a  carriage,  and  the  splashing  of  a  horse's 
hoofs  through  the  sea  of  mud  in  the  roadway.  Doctor 
McMurray  heard,  and  he  knew  that  Mrs.  Trent  heard  also. 

"Mrs.  Trent,"  he  said  softly,  "Mrs.  Trent,  are  the  clouds 
lifting?  Can  you  see  the  Peak?" 

Still  the  woman  kept  silent.  The  sounds  of  the  wheels 
grew  momentarily  louder,  the  voices  of  men  talking  broke 
in  upon  them,  and  then  the  carriage  stopped  before  the  door. 

"Mrs.  Trent,"  pleaded  the  doctor  for  the  last  time,  "tell 
me,  can  you  see  the  Peak?" 

He  heard  the  men  climb  out  of  the  carriage  and  come  up 
to  the  door,  then  a  loud  knock. 

Mrs.  Trent  at  last  broke  her  silence. 

"Doctor  McMurray,"  she  said,  speaking  quite  softly, 
"Doctor  McMurray,  do  you  see?  The  Peak  is  clear.  All  the 
clouds  have  lifted!" 

Literary  Monthly,  1905. 


THE  FROST  KING 

CHARLES  HENRY  BRADY  '06 

WHEN  the  weary  sun,  his  day's  course  run, 

Sinks  into  the  western  sea, 

And  the  mountains  loom  in  the  growing  gloom 

With  far-off  mystery, 

When  the  shadows  creep  o'er  plain  and  steep 

With  stealthy  tread  and  still, 

And  the  fettered  stream  to  its  icy  dream 

Is  left  by  the  sleeping  mill, 

From  the  frozen  north  I  then  lead  forth 

My  swiftly  flying  bands, 

In  close  array  on  the  track  of  day, 

As  she  flees  to  other  lands. 

From  the  wintry  zone  where  the  forests  groan 
'Neath  burdens  of  dazzling  white, 
And  the  tempest's  roar  as  it  strikes  the  shore 
Turns  daylight  into  night, 
My  armies  throng  and  we  march  along 
In  the  light  of  the  peeping  stars, 
Which  smile  with  glee  at  our  chivalry 
And  the  shock  of  our  mimic  wars. 
For  when  earth  and  deep  in  a  shroud  of  sleep 
Lie  peaceful  and  still  below, 
Supreme  I  reign  in  my  airy  domain, 
The  monarch  of  ice  and  snow. 
Literary  Monthly,  1905. 


112 


UNTIL  HE  COMETH 

GEORGE  BURWELL  BUTTON  '07 

THE  CHARACTERS 

AHASUERUS,  the  Wandering  Jew. 

ANSELM,  a  holy  monk. 

A   band  of  travellers,  —  merchants,  peasants,  soldiers,  who 

stop  at  the  monastery  over  night. 
Monks  of  the  monastery. 

The  time  is  the  twelfth  century,  a  Christmas  eve. 

The  place  is  the  great  hall  of  the  monastery  of  St.  Cuthbert. 
The  room  is  a  large  one,  with  cold  stone  walls  and  a 
heavy-beamed  ceiling,  lighted  by  flaring  torches.  The 
rear  wall  is  broken  by  a  massive  oaken  door  leading  to 
the  courtyard  of  the  monastery,  and  two  rudely  glazed 
windows.  On  the  right  an  open  doorway  leads  to  the 
chapel  and  to  one  side  of  the  doorway  is  a  shrine  to  the 
Virgin  and  Child,  before  which  some  candles  burn  with 
wavering  flames.  On  the  opposite  side  of  the  room  is  a 
huge  fireplace  with  a  blazing  log  fire.  The  wind  is  roar- 
ing outside,  and  even  blows  through  the  rude  hall  in  great, 
gusty  draughts,  while  a  fine  powder  of  snow  sifts  in 
through  crevices  of  windows  and  door. 

SCENE  I.  [The  travellers,  with  some  of  the  monks  of  the 
monastery,  are  seated  before  the  fire.  The  Jew,  bent,  gaunt 
and  gray-bearded,  stands  to  one  side,  unrecognized, 
muttering  to  himself  indistinctly.  He  has  evidently  just 
entered,  for  the  melted  snow  still  gleams  from  his  cloth- 
ing. The  company  disregard  him,  conversing  among  them- 
selves} 

"3 


ii4  A  WILLIAMS  ANTHOLOGY 

A  SOLDIER.   Now,  by  Our  Lady,  't  is  a  raw  cold  night  — 

I  mind  me  when  on  such  a  night  I  lay 

Unsheltered  in  the  trenches  facing  Mons 

In  Flanders. 
A  MERCHANT.    Hem!  Sir  Longbeard  tells  a  tale. 

List,  all! 

THE  SOLDIER.    By  Holy  mass  — 
THE  MERCHANT.  Ho!  Hear  the  oaths! 

They  're  thick  as  — - 

THE  SOLDIER.         Hark  ye!   Hush  thy  meddling  tongue! 
A  PEASANT.    A  quarrel!  Mark  them! 
A  MONK.  Shame!  On  such  a  night 

When  angels  fill  the  air,  and  voices  sweet, 

Mysterious,  sing  their  golden  songs  of  peace  — 

On  this  glad  night  to  quarrel? 
THE  SOLDIER.  Why,  to-night  — 

THE  MONK.    On  such  a  night  was  Christ,  our  Saviour, 
born, 

While  all  the  earth  was  wrapped  in  sacred  peace. 

This  is  the  holy  eve,  and  on  the  morrow, 

With  solemn  chant  we  shall  observe  the  birth 

Of  that  sweet  Christ-child  whom  we  worship  all. 
THE  SOLDIER.    Then  I'll  not  quarrel  —  my  hand  upon  it. 

There. 

THE  MERCHANT.    Nor  I.  And  here's  my  hand,  good  sol- 
dier. There. 

[The  company  is  silent  for  a  moment,  while  the  wind  moans 
in  the  great  chimney} 

THE  MERCHANT  [crossing  himself].  Hark  to  the  wind.  Me- 
seemeth  that  it  wails 

Like  some  lost  soul. 
THE  SOLDIER.  Some  say  it  is  the  soul 

Of  that  accursed  Jew  who  crossed  our  Lord 

When  he  was  on  his  way  to  Calvary, 


GEORGE  BURWELL  BUTTON  115 

And  was  condemned  to  wander  ever  more 

Until  the  Christ  a  second  time  should  come. 

[The  faces  grow  solemn,  in  the  fire-light,  and  the  voices  are 
lowered} 

THE  MONK.    The  Jew!  Oft  have  men  seen  him  bent  and 
worn, 

When  darkness  fills  the  earth,  still  wandering, 

Still  living  out  his  curse. 
THE  PEASANT.  List!  Hear  ye  not? 

THE  SOLDIER.    Again  that  mournful  wailing  of  the  wind. 
THE  PEASANT.    How  came  he  by  the  curse? 
THE  MONK.  Know,  when  our  Lord, 

Full  weary,  bore  his  cross  to  Calvary, 

He  paused  a  moment,  resting,  but  this  Jew, 

Ahasuerus  —  cursed  be  the  name  — 

Reviled  the  Saviour,  and  commanded  him 

To  move  away.  Whereon  our  blessed  Lord: 
"Because  thou  grudgest  me  a  moment's  rest 

Unresting  shalt  thou  wander  o'er  the  earth 

Until  I  come." 
THE  SOLDIER.      Ah,  would  I  had  been  there  — 

The  cursed  Jew!  An  arrow  through  his  heart 

Had  stopped  his  babbling! 
THE  PEASANT.  And  had  I  been  there, 

He  would  have  felt  the  weight  of  my  great  fist 

Ere  he  had  spoken  twice. 

[The  Jew  mutters  indistinctly  to  himself  in  his  corner} 
THE  MERCHANT   [in  a  low  voice].  Dost  hear  the  man? 

Old  gray-beard  murmurs. 
THE  SOLDIER.  How!  Is  he  a  Jew? 

THE  MERCHANT.    See  how  he  cowers  when  we  look  at  him. 
THE  MONK.    He  is  no  Jew.  On  this  thrice-blessed  night 

No  Jew  would  dare  seek  shelter  in  Christ's  house. 
THE  PEASANT.   Yet  they  are  daring  —  and    men    tell 
strange  tales 


n6  A  WILLIAMS  ANTHOLOGY 

Of  bloody  rites  which  they  perform  apart. 
THE  SOLDIER.    May  God's  high  curse  rest  on  their  scat- 
tered race! 

[The  Jew  flashes  a  quick  glance  upon  them,  and  then  looks 
down  again.  An  unusually  strong  gust  of  wind  sweeps  through 
the  hall,  and  strange  moanings  are  heard  in  the  chimney} 
THE  PEASANT.    Lost  souls!  Oh,  Mother  of  Christ  1 
THE  MERCHANT.  They  wail  in  pain. 

THE  MONK    [making  the  sign  of  the  cross].    'Tis  but  the 
wind  —  or  on  this  night  mayhap 

We  hear  the  noise  of  vast  angelic  hosts 

That  sob  to  see  our  Saviour  come  to  earth, 

A  simple  Babe,  to  suffer  and  to  die  — 

So  brother  Anselm  tells. 
THE  SOLDIER.  And  what  knows  he 

Of  angels'  doings? 
THE  MONK  [terrifled].    Still!  Thou  impious  man! 

Hast  thou  not  heard  the  fame  of  Anselm's  name? 

A  very  saint  on  earth,  his  eyes  behold 

Things  hidden  from  mankind;  his  face  doth  glow 

All  radiant  from  his  visions. 
THE  SOLDIER.  Wretch  that  I  am! 

Ah,  woe  is  me  to  speak  thus  of  God's  saint. 

[The  deep-toned  monastery  bell  rings.] 
THE  MONK.    Come,  follow  me.  Below  us  in  the  crypt 

The  pious  brethren  this  night  have  set  forth 

The  sacred  mystery  of  Jesus'  birth; 

Shalt  see  the  very  manger  where  he  lay. 

Make  haste  and  come. 

[The  company  arise  and  pass  out,  all  save  the  Jew.  The 
monk,  last,  stares  at  the  gaunt  figure  a  moment,  opens  his  lips 
to  speak,  then  shakes  his  head  and  departs} 

SCENE  II.   [AHASUERUS,  alone.     He  looks  around  him, 


GEORGE  BUR  WELL  BUTTON      117 

as  if  to  see  if  any  remain  in  the  room,  then  slowly  moves 
toward  the  fireplace  and  holds  his  trembling  hands  before 
the  fire.] 

AHASUERUS.   Ah,  God  of  Jacob!  Hear  the  Christians  talk. 

"Dog  Jew!"  "Accursed  Jew!"  I  hate  you  all! 
Your  Christ  sits  on  his  kingly  throne  this  night  — 
But  I  am  steadfast.  How  the  very  wind 
Doth  buffet  me  and  chill  my  aged  bones! 
Ringed  all  about  with  enemies,  I  stand 
Unharmed  —  for  by  Jehovah's  dreadful  curse 
I  live  —  nor  can  I  die  —  until  He  come. 
How  chill  the  wind  sweeps  through  my  withered  frame 
While  curses  and  revilings  dog  my  steps  — 
My  weary,  ceaseless  steps.  Ah,  God!  To  die! 
Have  I  not  expiated  yet  my  sin?  — 
To  bear  life's  heavy  burden  o'er  the  earth, 
To  wander  from  Armenia's  distant  hills, 
Through  desert  places  now,  and  now  through  vales 
That  flow  with  plenty;  now  through  sordid  towns, 
Until  at  last  I  reach  the  western  seas; 
Then,  ever  homeless,  to  repeat  my  steps? 
Death  were  a  blessing,  yea,  a  gentle  sleep  — 
To  feel  delicious  numbness  seize  my  limbs, 
Mine  eyes  grow  heavy,  and  the  weary  flight 
Of  immemorial  time  forever  stayed 
In  sleep,  in  dreamless  sleep  —  would  I  might  die! 
I  am  so  weary,  weary  of  it  all. 
[He  sinks  down  upon  a  bench,  and  is  silent  for  a  moment,  in 

deep  thought;  a  smile  flits  over  his  face,  as  at  a  pleasing 

memory,  then  the  worn,  hunted  look  returns] 
Faint  shadows  flicker  'round  me,  and  at  times 
Vague  dreams  of  joy  experienced  long  ago 
Beguile  me  for  a  moment,  then  I  wake; 
Dim  musings  of  that  time  when,  yet  a  child, 


u8  A  WILLIAMS  ANTHOLOGY 

I  prattled  in  the  shade  of  Judah's  hills 
And  trod  her  leafy  valleys  aimlessly  — 
But  that  was  long,  long  centuries  ago. 
Sometimes  I  dream,  that  when  God  bade  my  soul 
To  leave  its  blest  abode  and  come  to  earth 
In  this  vile  guise,  all-terrified  it  prayed 
This  trial  and  affliction  to  be  spared; 
But  all  in  vain. 

And  now  the  curse  of  God 
Is  on  that  soul.  The  darkness  hideth  not, 
Oh,  Lord,  from  thee;  night  shineth  as  the  day. 
What  weariness  unspeakable  is  mine! 
[He  throws  himself  down  on  the  bench  in  utter  dejection. 
Suddenly  he  lifts  his  head  — footsteps  approach} 

SCENE  III.   [Enter  ANSELM.  At  first,  not  aware  of  an- 
other's presence,  he  kneels  before  the    Virgin's  shrine, 
and  mutters  a  short  prayer  in  Latin.  Then  he  arises 
and  advances  slowly,  absorbed  in  meditation.] 
ANSELM.   This  is  the  eve  —  the  sacred  eve  of  Christ. 

The  wind  is  wild,  and  stormy  is  the  night, 

And  yet  methinks  despite  the  elements 

A  holy  peace  pervades  the  solemn  world  — 

As  when  amid  the  hush  of  earthly  strife 

The  blessed  Child  was  born. 

[The  Jew  groans  to  himself,  and  the  monk  starts,  then  looks 
with  half-seeing  eyes}  v 

A  stranger!  Peace  be  unto  you,  my  son, 

And  may  God's  holy  calm  be  yours  amid 

The  strife  and  turmoil  of  the  outer  world. 

[AHASUERUS  sits  motionless.  A  bell  sounds.] 

The  vespers  ring.  Come,  join  with  me  in  prayer; 

Together  let  us  reverence  the  God, 

The  great  all-Father,  who  sent  unto  us 


GEORGE  BURWELL  BUTTON  119 

A  little  Child  to  lead  us  back  to  Him. 
[The  Jew  acts  as  if  he  does  not  hear,  but  the  monk  is  already 
at  prayer  and  does  not  notice.  AHASUERUS  gazes  steadfastly 
into  the  fire,  while  all  is  silent  but  the  crackling  of  the  flames 
and  the  moaning  of  the  wind.  Then  the  monk  arises] 
Pray,  let  me  sit  beside  you;  all  alone 

My  brethren  left  you  ?  Let  me  play  the  host. 

[He  sits  down  beside  AHASUERUS;  the  Jew  stares  at  him] 

You  seem  amazed,  fair  sir. 
AHASUERUS  [slowly}.  I  am  a  Jew. 

[The  monk  starts,  then  sits  down  again,  while  the  Jew  regards 
him  attentively] 
ANSELM.  A  Jew  ? 

AHASUERUS  [bitterly].  " Dog  Jew,"  they  call  me. 
ANSELM.  God  forbid! 

Yet  once  I  would  have  scorned  thee  like  the  rest. 

But,  long  years  past,  before  I  sought  these  walls, 

Adventurous  I  rode  into  the  East 

And  underneath  the  walls  of  Joppa  fell 

A  victim  to  the  fever.  Many  days 

I  lingered  in  its  grasp,  and  when  I  woke 

To  strength,  I  found  a  Jew  had  tended  me. 

E'en  then  I  scorned  him,  but  with  gentle  words 

He  heaped  great  coals  of  fire  on  my  head. 

And  then  I  dreamed  a  dream  —  upon  a  cross  — 

Two  other  crosses  near  —  outlined  against 

A  dark  and  dreadful  sky,  I  saw  a  man; 

And  lo,  it  was  a  Jew  —  Christ  was  a  Jew. 

With  tears  I  sought  mine  host,  and  told  the  tale, 

And  he  was  swift  to  pardon  —  he,  a  Jew. 

[AHASUERUS  will  not  trust  himself  to  reply,  but  gazes  stead- 
fastly into  the  fire.  From  the  adjacent  chapel  the  low  notes  of  an 
organ  fall  upon  their  ears] 
ANSELM.   You  speak  not.  Ah,  I  wonder  not  at  it. 


120  A  WILLIAMS  ANTHOLOGY 

On  such  a  night  is  meditation  good, 

And  soothing  to  the  soul.  The  wind  is  high 

But  cannot  harm;  the  torches  flicker  low, 

While  softly  like  a  benediction  falls 

The  distant  melody  upon  our  ears; 

And  in  the  silent  watches  of  the  night 

God's  holy  Spirit  broods  o'er  all  the  world 

And  bringeth  calm  and  peace  to  all  mankind. 
AHASUERUS  [wildly].  For  me  there  is  no  peace  —  I  am  the 
Jew 

Who,  cursed  of  the  Lord,  must  wander  till 

He  comes  again.  For  me  no  peace,  forever! 
ANSELM  [starts],  Thou  art  that  Jew! 
AHASUERUS  [despairingly].  I  am  that  Jew.  Farewell. 

[AHASUERUS  pulls  his  cloak  around  him  and  arises  to  leave. 
As  he  totters  toward  the  door  the  monk  looks  after  him  irreso- 
lutely, then  turns  his  eyes  to  the  Virgin's  shrine  as  if  to  seek 
counsel.] 

ANSELM  [whispers  to  himself].    Those  eyes  —  still  gaze  — 
in  mercy.  A-a-h,  methinks  —    > 

How  sad  they  look! 

[aloud].  Ahasuerus!  Hold! 

[ANSELM  hastens  after  the  Jew,  and  seeks  to  lead  him  back. 
AHASUERUS  resists] 

AHASUERUS.   Not  so!  I  am  accursed.  Let  me  go! 
ANSELM.   Forgive  me,  if  I  have  offended  thee, 

For  I  am  weak  —  yet  see;  I  pray  you,  stay. 

Without,  the  night  is  wild  —  and  here  is  calm. 
AHASUERUS.  The  storm  was  e'er  my  lot. 
ANSELM.  But  now  the  calm 

Invites  to  rest. 
AHASUERUS  [slowly].  To  —  rest? 

[He  stands  undecided,  then  submits  to  be  led  back  to  the  fire. 
For  a  moment  neither  speaks,  then  AHASUERUS  cries  out] 


GEORGE  BURWELL  BUTTON  121 

AHASUERUS.  There  is  no  rest 

For  me,  nor  ever  can  be,  for  I 

Am  curst  of  God. 
ANSELM.  O  miserere!  Pray! 

Pray  and  with  you  I'll  pray.  —  O,  thou  sweet  Christ, 

Look  down  in  pity  on  this  erring  one! 

We  all  like  sheep  have  gone  astray;  O  God, 

Thou  shepherd  of  the  flock,  lead  us  to  thee. 
AHASUERUS  [whispers].  May  God  be  merciful! 
ANSELM.  O,  holy  Babe, 

That  on  this  night  did'st  come  to  earth  to  seek 

Thine  own,  look  down  upon  our  need  and  grant 

Thy  mercy.  Holy  Mother,  intercede. 
AHASUERUS  [brokenly].    Cease,  cease.  It  is  enough.  O,  not 
for  me 

Is  God's  high  mercy,  —  I  am  ever  curst. 
ANSELM.    God's  mercy  is  not  limited,  O,  no. 

His  grace  is  all-sufficient,  even  for  thee. 

All  we  are  weak  and  sinful,  He  is  strong. 

Oh,  call  upon  His  name,  and  He  will  come. 

[There  is  silence  for  a  moment,  save  for  the  plaintive  notes  of 
the  organ.  Suddenly  AHASUERUS  rises,  tears  coursing  down 
his  cheeks] 
AHASUERUS.    At  last,  O  God,  at  last,  my  hard  heart  breaks. 

I  thank  thee  for  these  tears;  the  burden  lifts  — 

Sing  unto  God,  O  brother,  and  rejoice! 

The  darkness  disappears,  and  lo,  the  light  — 

Behold,  the  Light! 

[As  he  speaks,  a  miraculous  radiance  fills  the  room;  AHAS- 
UERUS slowly  sinks  down  upon  the  floor,  ever  gazing  heaven- 
ward in  mute  adoration,  while  the  monk  falls  before  the  Virgin's 
shrine  in  prayer.  There  is  a  sound  of  many  feet  from  without, 
and  the  company  of  the  earlier  evening  enter  noisily,  but  drop 
on  their  knees  in  awe  as  they  behold  the  miracle.  AHASUERUS 
murmurs  in  a  low  voice  hardly  to  be  understood] 


122  A  WILLIAMS  ANTHOLOGY 

AHASUERUS.  Lord,  comest  thou  —  to  me  ? 

[Then  dimly,  like  a  distant  strain  of  music,  a  wondrous 
Voice  is  heard,  and  by  some  understood.] 
THE  VOICE.    I  come,  Ahasuerus  ;  lo,  I  come.    Behold,  I 
stand  at  the  door,  and  knock;  if  any  man  hear  my 
voice,  and  open  the  door,  I  will  come  in  to  him  .  .  . 
Behold,  I  come  quickly. 

[AHASUERUS  falls  back,  and  a  look  of  deep  peace  overspreads 
his  countenance.  The  radiance  fades  away,  and  there  remains 
only  the  flickering  light  of  the  torches,  which  are  almost  ex- 
tinguished in  the  great  gusts  of  wind  that  sweep  through  the 
room.  Far  above,  the  joyous  chimes  are  pealing  a  welcome  to 
the  new  day] 
Literary  Monthly,  1905. 


THE  MASK  OF  ADELITA 

GERALD  MYGATT  '08 

To  think  that  it  all  happened  within  a  rifle  shot  of  the  great- 
est city  in  America,  in  the  very  outskirts  of  New  York  — 
this  was  strange.  A  romance  of  old  Spain,  tingling  with  the 
memory  of  tunes  when  men  fought  single-handed  for  the 
toss  of  a  rose  or  the  gleam  from  under  the  black  lashes  of  a 
senorita,  or  bled  and  died  for  the  sake  of  a  yellow  silken 
scarf!  That  such  a  thing  should  have  happened  as  it  did 
seems  preposterous,  and  yet,  on  second  thought,  it  occurred 
so  naturally  that  at  the  time  there  was  no  idea  of  its  being 
in  the  least  out  of  place  in  this  prosaic  New  World.  It  was 
like  a  dream  of  the  past  —  and  yet  it  was  no  dream. 

It  was  our  Saturday  half-holiday  and  Henderson  and  I 
were  driving  the  stagnation  of  a  week's  confinement  out  of 
our  lungs  by  a  long  walk  into  the  country.  We  were  just 
starting  back  in  the  approaching  dusk  when  a  round  stone 
that  I  happened  to  step  on  turned  under  my  foot.  I  tried 
to  grin,  and  hobbled  along  for  a  moment;  then  I  sat  down 
at  the  side  of  the  road. 

"It's  my  ankle.  I  don't  believe  I  can  make  it,  Fred." 

"Make  a  try  at  it,  old  man.  It's  only  a  short  mile  to 
the  railroad  station  and  there  won't  be  any  footing  it  from 
there.  Perhaps  walking  will  ease  it  up." 

I  got  up,  but  after  a  few  steps  sat  down  again. 

"I'm  awfully  sorry,  Fritz,  but  I  simply  can't  do  it.  The 
thing  hurts  like  all  time." 

He  stood  still  and  looked  about  him.  The  road  followed 
the  curve  of  a  hill,  at  the  foot  of  which  flowed  a  tiny  brook. 
Ahead,  it  passed  through  a  little  colony  of  houses,  perhaps 
twenty  in  all.  The  hamlet  had  an  air  about  it  that  marked 

123 


124  A  WILLIAMS  ANTHOLOGY 

it  from  numerous  others  we  had  walked  through  that  after- 
noon. The  cottages  appeared  brighter  and  there  were  gar- 
dens among  them  that  seemed  unlike  the  others  we  had 
passed.  No  hotel  or  public  house  of  any  kind  was  to  be  seen. 

"I  wonder  what  this  place  is,"  said  Henderson.  "It 
does  n't  look  especially  alluring.'' 

I  looked  up  from  the  task  of  rubbing  my  ankle. 

"No,"  I  commented,  "it  doesn't  seem  alluring,  and  I 
suppose  ninety-nine  hundredths  of  the  people  that  pass 
through  here  look  at  it  the  same  way.  But  to  you,  Fred, 
I'm  pretty  sure  it  would  be  rather  attractive,  and  I  know 
that  it  would  be  to  me  with  this  beastly  foot." 

"What!  Stay  here  all  night  ?  I  guess  not." 

"If  you  only  knew  what  it  was,"  I  ventured. 

"Probably  another  of  Washington's  headquarters,  or  the 
site  of  the  Battle  of ." 

"Wait  a  minute  before  you  explode,  and  give  me  a  chance. 
This  is  the  Spanish  colony." 

"What?" 

"The  Spanish  colony." 

"What  Spanish  colony?" 

"Of  all  things,  do  you  mean  to  tell  me  that  you  never 
heard  of  it?" 

"I  do." 

"Well,"  I  said,  "it's  wonderful  how  much  New  Yorkers 
don't  know  about  themselves.  This  place  was  settled  a 
long  time  ago  by  the  few  Spaniards  there  were  in  this  part 
of  the  country,  and  they've  stuck  together  ever  since.  I 
don't  believe  there  are  a  hundred  people  in  the  city  that 
know  about  the  place.  Maybe  it's  on  account  of  the  war, 
when  these  people  had  to  keep  pretty  quiet,  but  whatever 
it  is,  they  are  here.  I've  been  through  here  before  and  I've 
often  wished  that  I  could  have  stopped  off.  Now  the  Lord 
seems  to  have  taken  matters  into  His  own  hands." 


GERALD  MYGATT  125 

If  there  was  anything  Henderson  enjoyed  it  was  tales 
and  relics  of  the  old  Romance  lands,  and  I  knew  it.  Then 
there  was  my  ankle,  which  was  throbbing  painfully. 

"If  your  old  foot  really  is  as  bad  as  you  say,"  said  Hen- 
derson, "why,  we  can  put  up  here  over  night.  To-morrow 
is  Sunday,  you  know,  and  we  don't  have  to  be  back." 

He  spoke  condescendingly,  but  I  knew  that  if  I  suggested 
that  after  all  we  might  get  back  he  would  almost  get  down 
on  his  knees  and  plead  with  me.  So  I  spared  him  the  trouble. 
We  started  again  toward  the  little  hamlet.  Henderson 
wanted  to  stop  at  the  first  house  we  came  to,  but  I  pulled 
him  on. 

"Let's  tackle  that  larger  white  one  ahead  there  to  the 
right,"  I  suggested.  "It  looks  to  be  the  best  of  the  lot  — 
and  besides,  the  last  time  I  was  through  here  I  noticed  a 
mighty  pretty  girl  standing  in  the  doorway  —  one  of  those 
black-eyed  story-book  senoritas  you  so  dote  on." 

"I'm  surprised  at  a  man  of  your  age  and  dignity  noticing 
senoritas,"  he  laughed.  Nevertheless  he  turned  into  the 
little  garden  and  raised  the  iron  knocker. 

The  door  was  opened  almost  instantly  by  a  short,  rather 
stoutish  man,  well  past  the  prime  of  life.  There  was  nothing 
in  his  dress  to  mark  him  from  the  average  middle-class  New 
Yorker,  but  his  face  was  swarthy  and  the  hair  that  was  not 
grey  was  glistening  black.  We  explained  our  desires. 

"I  am  afraid  you  can  find  no  accommodations,"  he  said, 
with  but  the  slightest  trace  of  an  accent. 

Henderson  said  something  to  him  in  Spanish,  and  as  he 
did  so  the  man  stared  a  moment,  smiled,  showing  all  his 
teeth,  and  then  answered  in  the  same  tongue  with  a  flood  of 
words  that  I  could  barely  understand.  Then  he  took  our 
hats  and  bowed  the  way  into  a  little  parlor. 

"Will  the  senor  with  the  injured  foot  recline  upon  the 
sofa  ?  I  will  bring  in  hot  water  to  bathe  it.  We  have  a  large 


126  A  WILLIAMS  ANTHOLOGY 

room  upstairs  with  a  bed  for  two,  where  the  senores  may  pass 
the  night."  He  took  out  a  large  gold  watch.  "It  is  now 
quarter  before  six.  Dinner  will  be  served  at  half  after  the 
hour.  Till  then  the  senores  may  rest.  I  will  bring  the  hot 
water  to  your  chamber." 

Promptly  at  six-thirty  Henderson  and  I  descended  the 
stairs.  The  rest  and  a  bath  had  done  us  both  good,  and 
even  my  ankle,  though  badly  swollen,  had  ceased  to  give 
much  pain.  From  the  house  and  from  our  host  we  had  gath- 
ered much  of  interest.  His  family  had  come  over  some  sev- 
enty-five years  ago  and  had  moved  directly  to  the  little 
house,  which  the  widower  Senor  Lucas  de  Marcelo  and  his 
daughter  Adelita  still  possessed.  Don  Lucas  himself  was 
a  jeweller,  going  in  to  the  city  every  day.  We  found  him 
waiting  for  us  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs. 

"In  but  a  moment  dinner  will  be  prepared,"  he  said. 
"If  the  senores  will  pardon  me,  I  must  go  out  to  the  kitchen. 
To-night  is  the  big  dance,  the  mascarade,  for  which  Adelita 
must  dress."  He  raised  his  voice.  "Adela!  Hasten,  little 
one." 

"I  am  coming,"  called  a  clear  girlish  voice. 

Henderson  and  I  waited  in  the  little  parlor.  Back  in 
the  house  we  could  hear  our  host  moving  about  among  the 
pots  and  pans.  Then  from  the  top  of  the  stairs  there  sounded 
a  soft  voice: 

"Padre  —  father!" 

Don  Lucas  dropped  his  work  and  stepped  into  the  parlor. 

There  was  a  swish,  a  click  of  high  heels  on  the  stairs,  a 
flash  of  red,  with  a  momentary  glimpse  of  white,  and  the 
girl  stood  before  us.  The  father  spoke: 

"Senores,  my  daughter." 

She  bent  low  and  then  arose,  smiling  as  her  father  had 
smiled,  showing  the  white  of  her  teeth.  She  was  dressed  all 
in  red,  from  the  roses  in  her  black  hair  to  her  tiny,  outrage- 


GERALD  MYGATT  127 

ously  high-heeled  Spanish  slippers.  The  hair  was  parted  in 
the  middle  and  drawn  back,  giving  an  almost  child-like  ex- 
pression to  the  handsome  face  with  its  snapping  black  eyes 
and  full  red  lips.  Under  the  dark  wave  behind  each  ear  she 
had  effectively  pinned  a  cluster  of  rose-buds.  Over  her 
gleaming  shoulders  she  had  thrown  a  scarf  of  the  thinnest 
red  silk,  and  a  similar  scarf,  fringed  with  black  lace,  was 
drawn  about  her  hips  and  knotted  at  the  left  side.  The 
heavily  ruffled  skirts  fell  within  a  few  inches  of  the  floor, 
but  as  she  turned  they  swung  higher,  showing  her  slippers 
and  a  bit  of  red  silk-covered  ankle.  In  her  hand  she 
dangled  a  tiny  black  mask.  Her  father  looked  at  her 
proudly. 

"It  is  the  dancing  costume  of  the  Old  Country,"  he  ex- 
plained. "It  is  in  honor  of  the  mascarade  to-night." 

We  passed  into  the  little  dining-room.  Just  before  we 
sat  down  Henderson  managed  to  whisper  to  me: 

"Whew!  I  guess  you're  right  about  the  good-looking  girl." 

All  through  the  meal  he  watched  her  covertly,  and  the 
moment  he  took  his  eyes  from  her  face  I  noticed  that  she 
would  glance  over  at  him.  Then  the  second  he  turned  her 
way  her  eyes  would  drop  and  a  dull  red  would  suffuse  her 
face  and  neck.  Whether  Henderson  noticed  it  or  not  I  do 
not  know,  but  I  did.  When  the  coffee  was  brought  in  by 
Adelita  our  host  opened  a  box  of  mellow  cigars,  and  we 
passed  out  into  the  parlor.  In  the  doorway  the  girl  stopped 
her  father  and  excitedly  whispered  in  his  ear. 

"Please,"  she  pleaded,  "you  know  you  are  old  and  do 
not  like  to  stay  so  late,  and  he  is  young  and  big  and  could 
take  as  good  care  of  me  as  you.  Please,  padre" 

"Would  it  be  right?"  he  queried.  Then  he  thought  a 
moment.  "Perhaps  —  " 

"Bueno,"  she  cried.  "Good.  Ask  him,  padre,  please, 
please." 


128  A  WILLIAMS  ANTHOLOGY 

The  old  man  smiled.  Then  he  came  over  to  where  Fred 
and  I  were  standing. 

"Did  you  hear  the  girl,"  he  asked,  "the  little  scamp? 
She  thinks  I  am  too  old  to  take  her  to  the  ball  —  and  too 
uninteresting.  She  wishes  to  know  if  the  senores  would  care 
to  go  with  her  in  my  place.  It  would  perhaps  be  interesting 
to  you." 

I  guessed  what  she  really  wanted,  so  I  spoke: 

"You  go,  Fritz.  I'd  like  to,  only  my  foot 's  too  bad." 

"I  won't  go  without  you,"  he  said. 

Here  I  took  him  aside  and  told  him  what  I  had  seen  at 
the  table. 

"Now,"  I  said,  "if  you  don't  go  you  're  a  fool.  And  per- 
sonally I'd  rather  stay  here  anyhow  and  talk  to  the  don." 

"All  right.  I'll  do  it." 

The  girl  was  watching  him,  and  as  he  spoke  she  smiled. 
Then  she  walked  over  to  him,  put  both  her  hands  in  his, 
looked  up  into  his  face  and  laughed  aloud,  a  cheery,  rippling 
laugh. 

"For  to-night,"  she  said,  "you  shall  be  my  cavalier, 
mi  caballero"  Then  I  heard  him  whisper  in  Spanish: 

"I  will.  And  you  shall  be  my  lady." 

After  half  an  hour  of  bustling  and  sewing  and  rummaging 
in  trunks,  there  appeared  on  the  stairs  some  six  feet  of  Span- 
ish cavalier.  I  held  him  off  at  arm's  length. 

"Well,  old  man,  you  look  like  a  prince.  You  pretty  near 
match  the  princess.  But  where  did  you  get  that  rig  ?  " 

"Oh,  the  boots  and  the  picture  hat"  —  he  nodded  his 
head  and  the  feather  moved  majestically  —  "  they  belong 
to  old  Marcelo.  He  used  to  wear  'em.  They  have  had  a 
masquerade  ball  here  every  year  for  the  past  fifty  years, 
more  or  less  —  Don  Lucas  could  n't  quite  remember.  These 
boots"  —  they  were  patent  leather  with  yellow  tops  —  "fit 
as  if  they  belonged  to  me.  This  cape  is  an  old  one  of  the 


GERALD  MYGATT  129 

girl's  turned  inside  out"  —  it  was  light  yellow  satin  —  "  and 
the  red  sash  is  hers  too.  I  tell  you,  this  is  the  best  fun  I've 
had  in  years.  And  is  n't  the  girl  a  queen  though!" 

"Well,"  I  began  —  but  here  she  came  into  the  room. 

"It  is  time,"  she  said,  "that  we  started,  you  and  I." 
Her  father  descended  the  stairs.  Adelita  threw  her  arms 
about  his  neck  and  kissed  him. 

"Good-night,  Padre  —  till  later.  Buenos  noches.  Good- 
night, senor."  This  to  me. 

"Buenas  noches,  Adela,"  murmured  the  old  man.  "  Good- 
night, senor.  Take  good  care  of  the  daughter."  The  father 
and  I  passed  into  the  parlor. 

She  took  Henderson's  hand  and  led  him  out  of  the  door. 
They  did  not  go  out  of  the  gate,  but  turned  through  the 
little  garden,  past  the  house,  and  followed  a  narrow  path 
that  ran  down  the  hill.  As  the  grass  was  high  on  either  side 
he  followed  where  she  led,  holding  fast  to  the  hand  she 
stretched  out  to  him.  Suddenly  as  the  path  dipped  down 
the  hill  she  commenced  to  run.  Henderson  held  back.  She 
looked  over  her  shoulder,  laughing. 

"Are  you  afraid  to  follow  ?"  she  asked  in  Spanish. 

"No,  little  one,  I  am  not,"  he  answered  in  the  same 
tongue,  "but  I  am  afraid  that  with  those  high  heels  you 
will  wrench  your  ankle." 

"Oho,"  she  laughed,  "I  was  born  for  this."  But  she 
stopped  and  walked  slowly. 

The  moon  was  just  rising,  big  and  red,  as  if  it  were  autumn 
instead  of  late  spring.  The  girl  drew  in  a  deep  breath. 

"Look  at  that,  Senor  Federico  mio,  look  at  that."  She 
still  spoke  in  the  Old  World  tongue. 

Now  they  had  reached  the  little  brook  that  tumbled  down 
through  the  rolling  valley.  The  girl  spoke  again. 

"Here  the  path  is  wider.  You  may  walk  beside  me  —  if 
you  like."  She  glanced  up  from  under  her  black  lashes. 


130  A  WILLIAMS  ANTHOLOGY 

"The  hall  is  but  a  short  half  mile  down  the  stream  here  to 
the  left."  They  proceeded,  walking  slowly,  the  brook  purl- 
ing and  murmuring  at  their  side.  The  girl  drew  in  her 
breath  again,  deliberately  and  deep. 

"Smell  the  roses.  It  is  the  long  arbor  of  Don  Benito, 
through  which  we  must  pass.  Ah,  it  is  wonderful." 

The  heavy  musk  of  roses  seemed  literally  to  fill  the  bottom 
of  the  vale.  With  it  was  mingled  the  scent  of  the  grass  and 
of  the  field  flowers.  Over  all  hung  the  moon,  yellow  and 
near. 

"It  is  wonderful,"  mused  Henderson.  She  came  close  to 
him. 

"Remember,"  she  said,  "to-night  I  am  your  lady,  and 
you  —  you  are  my  cavalier.  Take  care  of  the  feather  in 
your  cavalier's  hat,  for  here  is  the  arbor."  He  bowed  his 
head,  and  they  passed  beneath  the  sweet-scented  array  of 
blossoms  and  buds.  Then,  as  they  rounded  a  corner  of 
the  slope,  there  came  to  them  from  far  down  the  valley  the 
sound  of  music  and  the  glint  of  lights  through  the  uneasy 
leaves  of  the  maples. 

"Hear  it,"  the  girl  cried,  "hear  it!  They  may  be  dancing. 
Let  us  hurry.  'Sh!  Now  we  are  getting  too  near.  We  must 
mask.  Here,  senor,  help  me  with  my  mask  and  I  will  do 
the  same  for  you.  Thank  you.  Stoop  lower,  please.  There, 
now  it  is  right!"  They  proceeded.  " I  wonder  what  Carlos 
will  say  to  this.  He  will  be  surprised  when  we  unmask. 
Until  then  he  will  not  know  me  —  nor  you  either."  She 
lowered  her  voice.  "I  told  him  that  my  costume  was  to  be 
that  of  a  shepherdess." 

They  were  close  to  the  hall  now.  A  turn  brought  them 
to  a  wider  path  which  led  directly  to  the  building.  Up  the 
steps  and  into  the  throng  of  masks  they  passed,  the  girl 
now  holding  tight  to  the  man's  arm.  The  orchestra  was 
playing  a  waltz  and  the  pair  swung  into  the  whirl,  dancing 


GERALD  MYGATT  131 

fast  and  gracefully.  The  music  stopped;  a  man  in  the 
costume  of  a  Spanish  sailor  came  up  and  asked  for  the  next. 
The  girl  looked  down,  then  glanced  quickly  up  and  pointed 
silently  to  the  tall  cavalier  at  her  side.  The  sailor  bowed 
and  passed  on.  Then  the  music  started  again. 

"I  cannot  speak,  you  see,"  the  girl  panted  as  they  swept 
around  a  corner,  "or  they  would  know  my  voice.  Of  course 
—  oh  look,  there  is  Carlos.  He  must  be  looking  everywhere 
forme." 

A  tall  man,  clad  in  the  helmet  and  boots  of  a  Spanish 
military  officer,  stood  in  the  center  of  the  floor,  intently 
watching  each  couple  as  it  passed.  Adelita  he  followed 
closely  with  his  eyes,  as  if  perplexed.  Then  he  shook  his 
head. 

"He  does  not  know  me,"  she  laughed. 

But  at  the  end  of  that  dance  he  strode  up  to  her  and 
bowed. 

"  May  I  have  the  honor  ?  " 

She  said  nothing,  but  inclined  her  head.  Then  they 
waltzed  off.  Henderson  stood  at  the  side  watching  the 
whirling  crowd.  The  vivid  reds  and  yellows  and  greens 
of  the  costumes  blended  harmoniously  in  a  swirl  of  color 
that  seemed  a  part  of  the  music,  the  laughter,  and  the  splen- 
dor of  the  night.  Just  then  the  couple  passed,  the  man  talk- 
ing intently,  the  girl  with  her  head  bowed,  saying  nothing. 
As  the  dance  ended,  Henderson  was  about  to  go  up  and 
accost  an  attractive  looking  shepherdess,  when  he  felt  a 
hand  on  his  shoulder.  He  turned  around,  surprised.  It 
was  the  tall  officer  whom  Adelita  had  called  Carlos. 

"Stranger,"  he  said  in  English,  "why  have  you  made 
my  Adela,  Senorita  de  Marcelo,  try  to  hide  from  me  ?  Do 
you  think,  although  she  has  not  spoken,  that  I  could  fail 
to  know  her  ?  Do  you  think  I  would  not  recognize  her  even 
if  she  came  in  a  black  cowl  and  robe  ?  Who  are  you  that 


132  A  WILLIAMS  ANTHOLOGY 

have  dared  speak  to  her  as  you  have  ?  I  have  watched 
her  —  and  you.  Hear  me,  interloper,  I  will  not  have 
you  dance  with  her  or  speak  to  her  again.  The  rest  of  the 
house  is  yours  —  and  welcome."  He  was  answered  in 
Spanish. 

"  With  my  compliments,  mind  your  own  business.  When 
I  need  advice  I  shall  come  to  you,  and  not  before.  Who  are 
you  —  and  pray,  who  am  I  ?" 

"I  —  I  am  Senor  Carlos  Gerardo,"  he  answered  in  the 
native  tongue.  "How  do  I  know  you  ?  Bah!  I  know  every 
man  in  the  room.  You  heard  what  I  said  about  Adelita. 
Now  remember." 

Henderson  turned  on  his  heel  and  walked  directly  over 
to  where  the  girl  stood,  talking  with  the  shepherdess. 
Adelita  looked  down  as  he  came  up  and  tapped  the  floor 
nervously  with  the  toe  of  a  red  slipper.  Her  face  was 
flushed. 

"May  I  have  this  dance  ?"  he  asked. 

"Surely." 

They  swung  off  to  the  tune  of  a  catchy  American  popular 
air.  Few  of  the  dances  had  been  Spanish.  He  waited,  and 
at  last  she  broke  the  silence. 

"Carlos  danced  with  me  and  tried  to  get  me  to  speak, 
but  I  would  not.  Nevertheless  he  knows  me,  and  is  angry 
—  very  angry.  But  it  will  do  him  good.  He  —  he  said  he 
was  going  to  speak  to  you." 

"He  did,"  put  in  Henderson  dryly.  "Is  it  the  custom 
here  to  allow  no  other  man  to  dance  with  one's  friends  ? " 

"No,"  she  said,  "it  is  not.  But  he  — Carlos  is  very 
jealous." 

After  the  dance  the  officer  came  up  to  Henderson  again. 

"You  heard  me,"  he  muttered.  "I  cannot  bear  with 
this." 

Again  Henderson  turned  on  his  heel  and  again  he  asked 


GERALD  MYGATT  133 

her  for  the  next  dance.  She  had  it  with  the  sailor,  but 
promised  him  the  one  after. 

It  was  warm  inside,  so  after  their  waltz  Fred  and  the 
girl  went  out  on  a  little  balcony  which  hung  low  over  the 
brook.  The  moon  was  high  in  the  heavens,  and  shone 
softly  through  the  whispering  leaves.  From  up  the  valley 
a  gentle  breeze  brought  the  heavy  scent  of  the  roses. 

"It  is  so  hot  inside,"  the  girl  said,  her  voice  so  low  that 
it  seemed  part  of  the  night,  "and  out  here  it  is  so  cool  and 

—  and  wonderful."   Again  she  came  close.    "For  to-night 
you  are  my  cavalier,  and  I  am  your  lady.  Oh,  if  to-night 
could  but  be  every  night.  You  are  so  big  and  kind  and  — 
different." 

"And  you,"  he  said,  with  the  romance  of  it  mounting  to 
his  head,  "you  are  more  than  different.  If  to-night  only  was 
every  night.  For  to-night  you  are  my  lady." 

A  shadow  darkened  the  doorway  behind  them  and  a  long 
arm  shot  out  for  Henderson's  neck.  Surprised,  he  turned 
blindly.  It  was  Don  Carlos.  Quick  as  a  flash  Fred  hit  him 
full  between  the  eyes,  and  with  the  other  arm  tried  to  loosen 
the  hold  on  his  throat.  There  was  no  sound;  the  girl  stood 
breathless.  Again  he  struck  and  the  hand  at  his  throat  tore 
away.  There  was  a  flash  of  steel  in  the  hand  of  the  Spaniard 

—  but  the  blow  never  fell.  The  girl  stood  between  them, 
her  arms  spread  apart,  her  eyes  flashing. 

"Carlos,"  she  said  slowly,  "if  you  ever  strike  a  blow  like 
that,  be  eternally  cursed  by  me.  You  fool !  Know  you  not 
that  I  was  playing  with  you  ?  How  I  hate  you  !  Go  ! "  She 
stamped  her  foot.  "  Go,  I  say." 

He  turned  with  bent  head,  and  without  a  word  passed 
into  the  building.  As  he  disappeared,  the  girl  sank  back, 
her  face  white,  almost  greyish,  against  the  red  of  her  dress. 

"Hold  me,  senor"  she  said  weakly.  "I  am  not  well. 
Could  —  would  you  take  me  home  —  to  my  father  ?" 


i34  A  WILLIAMS  ANTHOLOGY 

Without  a  word  Henderson  picked  her  up  bodily  and 
stepped  off  the  little  low  balcony  into  the  grass.  Not  until 
they  reached  the  arbor  did  she  speak. 

"Thank  you.  I  think  I  can  walk  now." 

He  set  her  down  and  she  smoothed  her  rumpled  skirts. 
Then  they  proceeded  together  slowly.  Silently  they  fol- 
lowed the  path  which  a  few  hours  before  they  had  so  gaily 
trod,  and  silently  they  ascended  the  hill. 

The  old  man  and  I  had  not  yet  gone  to  bed  when  they 
entered  the  house.  She  came  in  laughing. 

"Is  it  not  early,  my  angel  ?"  he  asked.  "It  is  but  little 
past  midnight."  She  smiled. 

"Yes,  padre,  it  is  early  —  but  I  —  I  thought  I  would 
return." 

Late  that  night,  as  Henderson  and  I  lay  in  bed  —  he 
telling  me  the  story  of  the  evening  —  we  could  hear  the  girl 
in  the  next  room,  sobbing,  sobbing  as  if  her  heart  would 
break.  It  made  Henderson  uneasy. 

"I'd  like  to  do  something,"  he  said.  "The  scoundrel! 
He  ought  to  be  whipped." 

I  grunted  and  tried  to  get  to  sleep,  but  it  was  useless. 
Fred  was  tossing  restlessly,  and  the  girl  in  the  other  room 
was  still  sobbing,  sobbing.  Suddenly  there  sounded  a  whistle, 
low  but  clear.  The  sobbing  ceased.  The  whistle  sounded 
again.  We  heard  a  quiet  step  and  the  noise  of  an  opening 
window. 

"0  Carlos  mio,"  she  breathed  in  the  mother  tongue, 
"I  knew  you  would  come." 

"Adela  mia,"  he  called  softly,  "my  angel,  I  hoped  you 
would  be  here  and  —  and  you  are." 

"You  have  been  so  long,"  she  sighed. 

"Henderson,"  I  said,  "if  you  have  any  decency,  go  to 
sleep." 


GERALD  MYGATT  135 

We  rolled  over  and  closed  our  eyes,  while  unknown 
to  us  the  breeze  wafted  up  the  heavy  night  odor  of  the 
roses  and  the  yellow  moon  slowly  moved  toward  the  western 
heavens. 

Literary  Monthly,  1906. 


THE  AWAKENING 

WILLARD  ANSLEY  GIBSON  '08 

WHEN  March  has  tuned  his  willow  pipes, 

The  robins  in  the  rain 
Take  up  the  song  with  plaintive  notes 

And  sing  the  sweet  refrain. 

Then  April,  sleepy  child  of  Spring, 
Awakes,  to  music  yields, 
Goes  dancing  'cross  the  fields. 

The  modest  buds,  once  red  and  brown, 
Burst  forth  in  plumes  of  green, 

And  interlace  the  barren  boughs 
With  wreaths  of  vernal  sheen. 

The  old  sun-dial  beside  the  walk 
Takes  heart  for  sunny  day; 

But  half-awake  marks  sleepy  hours 
By  light  through  spring-time  haze. 

When  March  has  tuned  his  willow  pipes, 

The  children  passing  by 
Kneel  down  and  pluck  the  early  flowers, 

And  smile,  they  know  not  why. 
Literary  Monthly,  1906. 


136 


THE  BROOK  RELEASED 

WILLARD  ANSLEY  GIBSON  '08 

I  'M  coming,  I'm  coming, 

The  miller  has  lifted 
The  gates  that  have  bound  me; 

At  last  I  am  free, 
And  where  the  grey  sands 

O'er  my  courses  have  drifted 
My  swift  happy  waters 

Shall  hurrying  be. 
Like  hearts  that  unburdened 

From  grief  come  to  weeping, 
And  smile  'mid  their  tears 

At  old  sorrows  past; 
So  my  sunny  waters, 

The  white  rapids  leaping, 
From  dark  fearsome  valleys 

Come  singing  at  last. 

I'm  coming,  I  'm  coming, 

The  children  shall  love  me  ; 
The  beeches,  the  willows, 

The  golden  elm  trees 
That  close  by  the  village 

Are  drooping  above  me, 
Shall  float  on  my  billows 

Their  last  withered  leaves. 
The  grey  flocks  shall  meet  me, 

The  meadow  larks  greet  me, 
And  oft  the  shy  new  moon, 

In  veiled  halo  lace, 
137 


i38  A  WILLIAMS  ANTHOLOGY 

Through  bare  tangled  branches, 
In  sad  brooding  shallows, 

Shall  trail  her  cloud  tresses, 
Shall  bathe  her  pale  face. 

I'm  coming,  I'm  coming, 

O  hearken,  sad-hearted, 
My  sweet  singing  voices 

Shall  teach  you  by  day; 
And  in  the  night's  darkness 

The  stars  gently  mirrored, 
All  borne  on  my  current, 

Shall  mark  you  the  way. 
Dark  mountains  may  tower, 

Dark  valleys  may  lower, 
But  follow,  sad-hearted, 

Come  smiling,  light-hearted, 

Come  fare  to  the  river; 
His  Hand  in  the  forest 

Has  marked  the  true  way. 
Literary  Monthly,  1907. 


THE  GARDENER 

SONNET 
WILLARD  ANSLEY  GIBSON  '08 

SHE  told  me  of  her  garden,  all  the  flowers, 
Of  hallowed  lilies  and  the  glories  bright, 
Frail  tinted  cups  filled  with  the  morning's  light; 
The  primrose  drooping  for  the  evening  hours. 
She  spoke  of  hedges,  hawthorns,  and  the  powers 
Of  weeds  and  frost  in  April,  and  the  blight 
Of  birds  and  children;  prayed  her  blossoms  might 
Not  so  allure  them  to  her  paths  and  bowers. 
And  I  turned  silently  upon  my  way, 
And  sought  His  untrod  forests  and  the  hills, 
My  free  companions  of  no  guile  nor  art  — 
Their  holy  strength  is  more  than  rocks  and  clay; 
I  sought  the  comfort  loneliness  instills: 
Dear  Christ!  She  spoke  her  own  vain,  selfish  heart. 
Literary  Monthly,  1910. 


139 


NOCTURNE 

WILLARD  ANSLEY  GIBSON  '08 

OVER  the  hills 
Softly  the  slumber  light 
Seems  to  me  creeping, 
Stealing  with  twilight, 
While  the  world  sleeping 
Breathes  in  the  lower  light 
Prayers  for  its  loved  ones 
Over  the  hills. 

Stars  watch,  and  the  fire  glows, 
Fading  it  goes,  fainter  it  glows, 
Lips  of  vain  speaking  silently  close  — 
The  breath  comes,  but  the  breath  goes* 

Some  mothers  stifled  lie, 
Sobbing  till  life  is  gone; 
Some  fathers  bitter  die 
In  their  remorse  ere  dawn; 

Stars  watch,  and  the  fire  glows  — 
Something  comes,  something  goes. 

Far  in  the  night 
Beckon  the  locust  trees, 
Whispering,  calling, 
And  from  their  drooping  leaves 
White  blossoms  falling 
Float  on  a  magic  breeze, 
Far  in  a  phantom  world, 
Far  in  the  night. 

140 


WILLARD  ANSLEY  GIBSON  141 

Clocks  chime  and  the  night  goes, 
Slowly  it  goes,  brighter  it  grows, 
Tired  hands  folded  rest  in  repose  — 
The  breath  comes,  but  the  breath  goes. 

Some  watchers  on  the  hill 
Wide-eyed  await  the  dawn; 
Some  workers  in  the  mill 
Wearying  are  toiling  on; 

Clocks  chime,  and  the  night  goes  — 
Slowly  it  lighter  grows. 
Literary  Monthly,  1910. 


THE  HIDDEN  FACE 

BERNARD  WESTERMANN  '08 

THE  moon  hath  a  hidden  face  and  fair,  — 
Never  we  gaze  on  its  features  calm; 

She  gazeth  afar  on  the  star-lit  air, 
On  star-lighted  regions  whose  breath  is  balm; 

But  never,  ah  never,  her  glance  doth  show 

To  the  world  of  men  in  the  deeps  below. 

O  love,  do  you  know  that  there  dwells  in  thee 
A  hiddenest  spirit  that  dreams  alway, 

And  never  the  world  can  her  features  see, 
Of  the  spirit  that  shunneth  the  earthly  day  ? 

Only  I  know  that  she  lives,  to  rise 

Some  day,  some  night,  in  your  love-lit  eyes. 
Literary  Monthly,  1906. 


142 


MODERN  THOUGHT  AND  MEDIEVAL 
DOGMA 

SONNET 
BERNARD  WESTERMANN  '08 

ARE  we  but  truants  from  a  parent  stern  — 
Whose  strait  commands  with  fear  we  long  obeyed, 
Till,  gladdened  by  the  sunlight,  far  we  strayed, 

And  lingered  by  the  woodside  and  the  byrne, 

The  bird's  sweet  passion  at  the  sun's  return, 
The  flower's  grieving  at  his  sight  delayed, 

With  wistful,  long-pent  love,  to  watch  and  learn, 
Till  evening  come,  and  we  turn  home  dismayed  ? 

Or  have  we  grown  unto  our  fuller  seeing, 
The  manhood  of  our  days,  when  evermore 

Our  Father  speaks  and,  punishment  decreeing, 
Is  high  and  silent  from  his  sapphire  door  ? 

Forever  past,  the  childhood  of  our  being: 

He  stoops  to  reason  who  but  spake  before. 
Literary  Monthly,  1908. 


143 


THE  GOBLIN  KING 

A  BALLAD 
BERNARD  WESTERMANN  '08 

BESIDE  the  grim,  the  grey,  cold  sea 

I  heard  a  goblin  call  to  me; 
Beneath  a  rock,  beside  the  water, 
He  cried,  "  Go  pray  thy  lady  daughter 

To  bring  some  wine  to  me. 

"For  coldly  runs  the  salt,  salt  tide, 
And  I  am  prisoned  fast  and  long, 
And  I  was  wont  to  feast  and  song, 
And  roaming  through  the  woodland  wide. 

"For  coldly  runs  the  salt,  salt  tide, 
And  I  am  wont  to  have  my  will, 
And  he  that  brooks  it  fareth  ill, 
When  I  may  roam  the  woodland  wide. 

"Of  old,  of  old  I  roamed  the  wood, 

Of  old  I  dwelt  in  lordly  state, 
Before  they  came,  the  black-heart  brood, 
To  make  me  thus  disconsolate. 

"For  coldly  runs  the  salt,  salt  tide, 

And  stones  are  hard  that  prisons  be; 
Yet  here  in  daily  hope  I  bide, 
That  one  will  hear  and  come  to  me. 
144 


BERNARD  WESTERMANN  145 

"  They  came  with  drums  and  dancing  fire, 

And  wreaths  and  chants  and  incense  sweet; 
They  stole  away  my  heart's  desire, 
That  was  all  fair  and  lithe  and  fleet. 

"  And  coldly  runs  the  salt,  salt  tide; 

Alone  they  bound  and  prisoned  me, 
Nor  may  I  taste  of  aught  beside, 
Though  well  I  know  the  sweets  there  be. 

"  A  thousand  gnomes  brought  golden  urns, 

With  red,  red  wine  and  crystal  filled; 
And  all  my  couch  was  flowers  and  ferns, 
And  whatsoever  maid  I  willed. 

"  But  coldly  runs  the  salt,  salt  tide, 

And  men  ride  up  the  high,  white  road, 
And  many  a  goodly  maid  beside  — 
Nor  ever  glance  to  my  abode. 

"  The  bee  sucks  sweetness  all  the  day, 

And  dwells  in  flowers  from  morn  to  night; 
But  never,  never  need  he  stay, 
And  never  feels  he  gloom  nor  blight. 

"  But  coldly  flows  the  salt,  salt  tide, 

And  I  am  weary  of  my  breath; 
Though  all  the  world  is  fair  beside, 
And  yet  I  taste  nor  life  nor  death. 

"  In  feasts  we  sat  at  silken  boards, 

Endraped  with  silver  gossameres, 
And  'round  me  sat  my  bearded  lords, 
And  maidens  served  whose  sires  were  peers. 


i46  A  WILLIAMS  ANTHOLOGY 

"And  coldly  runs  the  salt,  salt  tide; 
I  loved  too  well  and  she  was  fair, 
And  here  in  bondage  dire  I  bide, 
Who  never  thought  to  know  despair. 

"I  hate  the  stone,  I  fear  the  water; 

I  dread  the  grey,  the  moaning  sea; 
I  pray  thee  bid  thy  lady  daughter 
To  fetch  some  wine  to  me. 

"For  coldly,  coldly,  runs  the  tide; 

And  all  the  foam  is  salt  and  strong; 
And  here,  athirst  and  cramped,  I  bide, 

And  I  have  waited,  waited  long." 
Literary  Monthly,  1910. 


OUT  OF  THE  HARBOR 

STANTON  BUDINGTON  LEEDS  ex-'o8 

ACROSS  the  breadth  of  many  memoried  years 
I  catch  a  whiff  of  strong,  salt  air 
Light-hearted  blowing  of  the  gentle  wind, 
And  all  the  swaying  of  the  sad  and  silent  sea; 
On  high  a  golden  star,  bright,  peerless,  free, 
In  endless  space  confined,  — 

And  light  as  laughter  'gainst  my  cheek,  star-lit  with  tears, 
A  wavy  lock  of  sweet  brown  hair. 

The  star  wove  silver  webs  across  the  ways 
Carved  by  the  wind,  a  half-breathed  sigh, 
That  spoke  in  ripples.  "O  Heart's  Delight," 
I  cried,  "The  skiff  comes  for  me  now  across  the 

water." 

And,  as  I  bent  to  kiss  her,  Love's  fair  daughter, 
She  barely  breathed,  "Good-night," 
And  some  musician  blended  Chopin  with  her  phrase: 
"  Good-bye,  Love's  youth,  Youth's  love,  good-bye." 
Literary  Monthly,  1907. 


147 


SUCCESS 


STANTON  BUDINGTON  LEEDS  ex-'o8 

THE  deep,  dark  clouds  are  yonder  massed, 

And  rain  has  drenched  fields  drear  and  dun, 
But  o'er  the  farthest  hills  at  last 

I  see  the  sun! 
Literary  Monthly,  1905. 


ON  THE  "  CHANT  D'AMOUR"  OF 
BURNE-JONES 

ROGER  SHERMAN  LOOMIS   '09 

MYSTERIOUS  damozel  in  white, 

White  like  the  swans  that  glide  upon  the  pool  below, 

Who  art  thou  that  with  fingers  light 

Playest  upon  those  ivory  keys  such  music  low  ? 

O  winged  youth  in  dreamful  thought, 

With  eyelids  weighed  with  utter  sweetness,  who  art  thou, 

With  garments  by  the  breezes  caught, 

Whose  hands  with  drowsy  motion  ply  the  bellows  now  ? 

The  youth  and  damsel  answer  not. 

But  thou,  O  listening  knight-at-arms,  thou  mayest  tell 

Who  are  these  minstrels  mild,  and  what 

The  strains  that  here  outside  this  quiet  city  swell. 

The  youth  with  languid  moving  wrist 

In  puissance  may  with  any  of  the  gods  compare; 

No  marvel  thou  must  stay  and  list, 

For  't  is  the  Song  of  Love  breathes  on  the  evening  air. 

Know  by  the  calm  her  lips  disclose, 

By  the  fine  shades  and  faery  lustre  of  her  eyes, 

The  damsel  is  the  queen  of  those 

Whose  names  are  written  Beatrice  in  Paradise. 

While  yon  still  towers  in  sunset  lie, 

Her  face  oblivious  of  all  else  I'll  ponder  long. 

My  body  thrills  with  ecstasy! 

My  heart  beats  with  the  rhythmic  pulsing  of  the  song! 

Literary  Monthly,  1906. 

149 


THE  MANY  ROADS 

HORACE  HOLLEY  ex-'io 

THE  north  road,  the  south  road, 
Highway,  byway, 
There  never  was  a  road  men  trod 
That  did  not  lead  them  home. 

The  east  road,  the  west  road, 
Your  way,  my  way, 
Men's  tangled  footprints  end  in  God, 
Through  Arcady  or  Rome. 
Literary  Monthly,  1907. 


BEAUTY 

HORACE  HOLLEY  ex-'io 

HER  beauty  lies  upon  her  face 
As  sunlight  masks  the  barren  sea; 
A  fitful,  accidental  grace 
Which  time  shall  ruin  utterly. 

Not  like  the  Beauty  all  divine 
(The  "  house  of  God,"  the  poet  saith), 
Which  is  the  craftsman-soul's  design, 
Its  majesty  supreme  in  death. 
Literary  Monthly,  1908. 


PREFERMENT  AND  THE  FOOL 

HORACE  HOLLEY  ex-'io 

THE  Fool  was  sitting  by  his  half-built  sod  house.  This  was 
the  season  of  building,  for  the  sun  shone;  and  moreover 
presently  would  come  the  bitter  unending  rain  of  winter, 
when  it  were  better  to  be  abiding  safely  at  home.  Neverthe- 
less the  Fool  sat  happily  idle,  for  he  never  could  get  enough 
of  the  sunshine,  though  he  rose  with  the  sun  in  the  morning 
and  wistfully  watched  it  set  at  night.  Now  he  was  twirling 
a  dandelion  between  thumb  and  finger,  and  gazing  out  across 
the  valley  to  the  running  hills  of  the  north  country.  It  so 
happened  that  the  Fool's  house  was  on  a  cross-road,  and 
presently,  as  he  was  a-sitting  at  his  ease,  along  came  the  King 
of  that  land,  with  a  great  cavalcade  of  soldiers  and  retainers. 
And  because  on  their  brazen  shields  and  helmets  the  sun 
was  reflected  more  brightly  than  from  yonder  peak,  the  Fool 
turned  to  gaze  at  them  as  they  wound  past.  In  sooth,  had 
it  not  been  for  that,  he  would  never  have  given  them  a 
glance  at  all,  not  having  much  curiosity  about  the  things 
other  people  love  to  gape  at. 

Beside  the  King  rode  the  King's  Favorite,  a  very  goodly 
man,  one  who  was  closest  of  all  to  the  King's  ear  and  heart. 
Plainly  enough  could  the  Fool  see,  even  though  he  was  only 
dreamily  a-looking,  a  bright  golden  figure  seated  upon  the 
saddle  with  the  King's  Favorite.  This,  as  all  men  know, 
was  Preferment,  and  a  sudden  wistful  longing  seized  upon 
the  Fool's  heart,  that  he  had  never  known  the  like  of  since 
the  time  he  had  cried  for  the  moon.  His  jaw  dropped,  and 
his  eyes  grew  misty.  In  a  little  while  the  troop  was  by,  gone 
around  the  hill,  but  the  Fool  could  not  forget  them,  and 
many  new  desires  tugged  at  his  heart. 

152 


HORACE  HOLLEY  153 

"Why,"  he  wondered,  "doth  not  Preferment  live  with 
me  ?  Am  I  not  as  fit  a  man  as  the  King's  Favorite  ?  "  And 
he  stretched  out  his  long  legs  and  looked  at  them. 

As  long  as  the  Fool  was  occupied  with  dreaming  and  lay- 
ing the  sods  on  his  house,  or  hunting  for  the  dun  deer  of  a 
moonlit  night,  he  was  company  enough  for  himself,  turning 
his  fancies  over  and  over  in  his  mind,  as  the  wind  bundles 
the  clouds  about  the  sky;  then  when  he  had  arranged  his 
conceptions  to  his  taste,  he  was  free  to  admire  them  undis- 
turbed, until  a  new  fancy  happened  along  to  displace  them; 
just  as  the  wind  leaves  off  driving  the  clouds  at  sunset,  and 
in  the  west  there  is  a  sweet  tableau  for  men  to  look  at,  till 
night  blots  out  the  scene.  So  the  Fool  was  usually  well  con- 
tent to  be  alone.  But  when,  as  now,  he  was  perplexed  by 
any  problem  that  disturbed  his  simple  cheerfulness,  he  had 
to  seek  some  other  and  wiser  man  for  counsel,  not  being  one 
of  those  men,  more  mind  than  heart,  who  unravel  problems 
with  as  much  accuracy  and  equanimity  as  a  skilful  weaver 
plies  his  loom. 

So  that  evening,  with  the  moon  sending  his  shadow  out 
ahead  of  him,  the  Fool  walked  overfield  to  the  cave  of  the 
Wise  Man.  Timidly  approaching,  he  peered  through  the 
entrance  and  found  the  Wise  Man  sitting  still  and  alone, 
gazing  into  the  ashes  of  a  flickering  fire. 

"Please,"  said  the  Fool  anxiously,  "why  does  Preferment 
ride  with  the  King's  Favorite  and  never  with  me  ?" 

The  other  did  not  stir  for  a  long  while,  but  after  the  Fool 
had  shifted  several  times  from  one  foot  to  the  other,  be- 
ginning to  despair  of  an  answer,  the  Wise  Man  spoke. 

"Because,"  he  said  slowly,  still  looking  into  the  fire, 
"thou  hast  never  desired  him  to."  And,  having  spoken,  he 
kept  silent,  and  after  a  little  the  Fool  turned  away. 

"I  never  desired  him  to  ?"  he  muttered  over  and  over  to 
himself.  "  What  does  that  mean  ?  "  And  he  stood  stock  still 


154  A  WILLIAMS  ANTHOLOGY 

and  looked  about  for  explanation ;  but  none  was  vouchsafed 
by  the  moon,  or  the  bushes,  or  night  itself,  the  customary 
adviser  of  the  Fool's  doubts  and  queries. 

"How  is  this  ?  "  he  said  again.  " Did  the  King's  Favorite, 
then,  desire  him?  And  will  Preferment  come  if  he  be 
wanted  ?  And  how  does  one  ask  him  ?  " 

All  this  was  inexplicable  to  the  Fool  and  he  took  courage 
to  return  to  the  cave. 

"Tell  me,"  he  asked  of  the  Wise  Man,  "did  the  King's 
Favorite  want  Preferment  more  than  I  ?  And  how  does 
Preferment  come  if  he  is  wanted  ?  " 

The  Wise  Man  nodded  gently  to  himself.  "Aye,"  he 
muttered,  "  so  it  is,  so  it  is."  The  Fool  gazed  in  amazement 
at  this,  but  because  he  thought  all  Wise  Men  are  somewhat 
mad,  he  waited  and  did  not  run  away,  as  his  heels  advised. 

"Listen,"  the  Wise  Man  began  again,  "this  man  has  so 
wanted  Preferment  all  his  life  that  he  has  given  up  every- 
thing that  is  dear  to  him.  He  has  crushed  underfoot  every 
dream  and  vision  save  this  alone,  to  be  seen  in  the  company 
of  Preferment."  The  Wise  Man  turned  and  looked  about 
at  the  Fool.  "  He  has  no  sod  house,  —  no  days  afield  and  by 
the  brook.  He  never  heard  the  night-song  of  the  wind  or 
the  winter-rune  of  the  pine.  Nothing  of  all  these  things  that 
you  love  has  he  had." 

The  Fool's  eyes  were  round  with  amazement.  "No  sod 
house  ?  "  But  the  other  was  sunk  into  a  reverie  and  gave  no 
answer.  The  Fool  stood  first  on  one  foot,  then  on  the  other, 
then  with  his  old  smile  he  turned  and  skipped  away.  As  he 
returned  through  the  night,  walking,  hopping,  or  running, 
as  the  need  came  to  him,  he  crooned  to  himself  a  song  he  had 
once  made  up. 

"My  lips  are  a-tremble  with  a  grave  little  song. 
I  care  not  if  the  wide  world  hear.' 
Its  words  happened  forth  as  I  dreamed  and  trudged  along. 
I  care  not  if  the  wide  world  hear. 


HORACE  HOLLEY  155 

It  has  not  worth  nor  weight,  it  is  neither  sweet  nor  strong. 
I  care  not  if  the  wide  world  hear. 
For  I  sing  it  to  myself  when  the  great  doubts  throng 
And  I  care  not  if  the  wide  world  hear." 


That  was  all,  but  he  hummed  it  with  great  content,  beat- 
ing time  with  one  hand ;  and  as  for  the  King's  Favorite,  for 
all  that  Preferment  rideth  on  the  pommel  of  his  saddle,  I 
doubt  not  he  never  sang  such  a  song  to  himself,  or  took  such 
pleasure  in  the  singing. 

Literary  Monthly,  1907. 


THE  IMMIGRANTS 

HORACE  HOLLEY  ex-'io 

UPON  mine  ear  a  deep,  unbroken  roar 
Thunders  and  rolls,  as  when  the  moving  sea, 
Too  long  asleep,  pours  on  th'  resisting  shore 
Full  half  his  cohorts,  tramping  audibly. 

Yet  here 's  no  rushing  of  exasperate  wind, 
Booming  revolt  amidst  a  factious  tide; 
Nor  hateful  shock  on  toothed  reef  and  blind, 
Of  foaming  waves  that  with  a  sob  subside. 

No !  but  more  fateful  than  the  restless  deep, 
Whose  crested  hosts  rise  high  but  fall  again, 
I  hear,  in  solemn  and  portentous  sweep, 
The  slow,  deliberate  marshalling  of  men. 

No  monarch  moves  them,  pawns  to  gain  a  goal; 
They  felt  a  fever  rising  in  the  soul. 
Literary  Monthly,  19(59. 


156 


PROPHECY 

HORACE  HOLLEY  ex-'io 

ALL  verse,  all  music;  artistry 

Of  cunning  hand  and  feeling  heart, 

All  loveliness,  whatever  it  be, 
Is  but  the  hint  and  broken  part 

Of  that  vast  beauty  and  delight 
Which  man  shall  know  when  he  is  free; 

When  in  his  soul  the  alien  night 
Folds  up  like  darkness  from  the  sea. 

For  e'en  in  song  man  still  reveals 
His  ancient  fear,  a  mournful  knell; 

Like  one  who  dreams  of  home,  but  feels 

The  bonds  of  an  old  prison  cell. 
Literary  Monthly,  1909. 


157 


ASHES  OF  DREAMS 

PHILO  CLARKE  CALHOUN  '10 

JANE  always  called  him  the  professor,  a  name  which  that 
individual  accepted  without  comment,  as  he  did  everything 
else.  In  fact,  since  he  had  been  possessed  of  titular  rights, 
but  two  people  had  ignored  them  —  his  mother  and  Mary. 
His  mother  had  been  dead — oh,  a  very  long  time,  and  it  was 
nineteen  years  and  some  months  since  Mary  had  followed 
her.  When  Mary  had  died  people  said  that  Jane  was  coming 
to  live  with  the  professor;  Jane  came,  and  now  people  said 
quite  unthinkingly  that  the  professor  lived  with  his  sister. 
Jane  was  high-minded,  also  strong-minded;  her  hair  was 
very  thin  and  very  straight,  a  fact  for  which  she  was  sternly 
and  devoutly  thankful.  Jane  was  stern  and  devout  in 
everything  —  even  in  cooking  preserves.  To  the  professor, 
Jane  had  been  surrounded  by  a  sort  of  halo  of  preserves, 
ever  since  he  had  recovered  from  his  awe  of  her  unapproach- 
able angularity  as  to  allude  to  her  before  admiring  play- 
mates as  the  "old  maid." 

When  the  professor  had  married,  Jane  had  strongly  dis- 
approved —  Mary's  cheeks  were  much  too  pink,  her  hands 
much  too  soft,  and  her  ways  of  life  led  her  into  the  flowery 
meadows  of  the  world  and  the  flesh,  if  not  the  devil.  The 
professor  had  been  infatuated,  and  the  year  or  so  of  married 
life  seemed  only  to  augment  such  infatuation,  and  inci- 
dentally Jane's  ire.  Well,  the  golden  year  was  over,  and  the 
little  butterfly  had  gone  to  its  rest,  fretfully,  fearfully.  And 
then  Jane  wrote;  wrote  that  the  professor  needed  somebody 
to  superintend  him,  to  see  that  he  did  not  take  cold,  and  to 
cook  his  preserves;  so  she  was  coming.  The  professor  did  not 

158 


PHILO  CLARKE  CALHOUN  159 

wish  to  be  superintended,  he  wanted  to  take  cold  in  comfort 
without  being  asked  how  he  took  it,  and  he  abominated 
preserves;  to  all  of  which  Jane  was  supremely  indifferent. 
Jane  came;  the  professor  wore  overshoes  and  ate  preserves 
—  meekly. 

So  the  professor  lived  with  his  sister.  At  first  the  direful 
system  which  ruled  everything  from  the  time  of  the  cat's  en- 
trance to  the  date  when  the  furnace  fire  should  be  started, 
chafed  on  him.  His  declarations  of  independence  were  re- 
ceived pityingly,  as  the  prattles  of  a  tired  child.  Gradually 
he  resigned  himself,  and  the  germs  of  discontent  followed 
the  wake  of  the  other  germs  which  Jane  had  promptly  and 
forcefully  annihilated. 

So  the  years  went  on;  in  time  the  professor  grew  tired  of 
ranting  and  mild  objections  gave  way  to  sighs  of  resignation. 
There  had  been  bones  to  pick  in  plenty.  The  professor  had  a 
sneaking  fondness  for  dirt  —  not  mud,  but  historic  dust,  so 
to  speak;  Jane  decreed  all  foreign  matter  as  damned  eter- 
nally. The  professor  liked  fiction;  he  had  once  in  the  first 
years  of  Jane's  rule  started  a  novel,  which  having  been  inad- 
vertently left  in  the  living-room,  was  consigned  to  the 
flames;  Jane  had  intimated,  moreover,  that  the  authors  of 
such  monstrosities  would  probably  end  in  the  embrace  of 
the  same  element.  Whereupon  the  professor's  wrath  was 
great;  but  his  house  was  built  on  the  sand;  so  was  his  novel; 
and  five  years  afterwards  he  knew  it. 

Although  Jane's  fanatical  cleanliness  had  been  far- 
reaching,  the  professor's  study  was  nearly  immune.  In  the 
first  place  the  door  was  usually  locked  and  the  key  dis- 
creetly lost;  and  in  the  next  place  the  professor  had  mildly 
but  very  obstinately  insisted,  through  all  the  twenty  years, 
that  his  desk,  which  is  the  sanctum  sanctorum  of  the  man 
with  a  past,  remain  untouched.  Jane  sniffed  copiously  over 
this  stipulation,  and,  as  she  liked  to  do  a  thing  thoroughly 


i6o  A  WILLIAMS  ANTHOLOGY 

or  not  at  all,  the  study  remained  as  a  whole  comfortably 
mussy.  Sometimes,  however,  Jane  had  twinges  of  con- 
science, resulting  in  the  disappearance  of  all  old,  unbound, 
and  destructible  matter  which  presented  itself.  So  the 
professor  painstakingly  replaced  equally  old  and  disreput- 
able matter  around  the  study  when  the  whirlwind  had 
passed,  and  waited  till  the  dust  settled. 

Of  late  the  professor  had  been  ill  with  a  chronic  rheuma- 
tism. He  grumbled  a  good  deal  about  the  "positively  senile" 
character  of  his  affliction  and  finally  agreed  to  take  to  his 
bed  for  a  few  days  in  the  hope  of  luring  nature  to  a  hasty 
cure.  The  professor  was  rather  helpless  when  he  was  ill; 
Jane  was  painfully  and  triumphantly  energetic.  One  mem- 
orable day,  when  the  invalid  had  fallen  into  a  restless  sleep, 
he  was  awakened  by  the  vigorous  ministrations  of  Jane, 
who  was  creaking  around  the  room  in  an  ostentatious  effort 
to  be  quiet.  The  professor  looked  and  wondered  what  she 
would  do  if  he  were  to  yell.  Seeing  he  was  awake,  she 
stepped  over  briskly  and  began  to  arrange  his  bedclothes 
and  pillows.  Her  hand  touched  his  sore  Teg.  He  winced  and 
groaned  inwardly. 

"I  am  going  to  sit  here  and  read  to  you,"  she  announced 
with  the  stern  cheerfulness  which  gave  the  recipient  of  her 
benefits  a  fitting  sense  of  the  self-sacrifice  which  prompted 
them.  Jane  usually  read  tracts,  and  the  professor  did  not 
feel  religious;  in  fact  he  was  conscious  of  an  emotion  of  most 
unchristian  belligerence. 

"Aren't  you  neglecting  your  house- work  to  attend  to 
me  ?"  remarked  the  victim  with  clumsy  and  obvious  intent. 

"My  house  is  always  in  order,  professor,"  answered  the 
supremely  ignorant  one  tartly. 

"How  fortunate;  my  study,  too,  —  I  suppose  that  is  in 
order?  "  The  professor  felt  most  out  of  place  as  an  inquisitor 
but  he  was  desperate. 


PHILO  CLARKE  CALHOUN  161 

Jane  looked  at  him,  with  as  near  a  quizzical  expression 
as  her  very  unquizzical  nature  would  permit. 

"You  know  I'd  do  it  if  you  were  n't  so  stubborn  about 
using  a  wastebasket  instead  of  that  desk,"  she  said. 

"  Better  clean  it  out,  Jane  —  clean  it  all  out  —  any- 
thing, anything,  —  "  but  she  was  gone.  He  took  the  tract 
which  she  had  left  on  his  table  and  carefully  tore  it  in 
four  pieces,  and  hid  them  under  the  mattress.  Then  he 
went  to  sleep.  The  professor  was  in  distinctly  a  rebellious 
mood. 

In  the  natural  course  of  time,  which,  when  one  has  num- 
erous queer  pains  in  most  unexpected  places,  is  short,  —  the 
professor  awoke  and  lay  on  his  back  watching  a  fly  walking 
around  the  edge  of  a  rosebud.  Pretty  soon  the  fly  flew  away 
—  then  the  professor  thought  of  something  else  —  some- 
thing he  had  not  thought  of  for  some  years.  Strange  how 
inactivity  of  the  body  affects  one.  The  professor  raised 
himself  in  bed  with  some  effort  and  drew  on  his  dressing 
gown  and  slippers.  Then  he  hobbled  across  the  room,  out 
of  the  door,  and  down  the  hallway  towards  his  study. 

At  the  turn  of  the  narrow  corridor  the  odor  of  long-hidden 
dust  met  him,  —  and  he  hobbled  faster.  His  lips  were  set  in 
a  manner  that  was  strange  to  him,  and  a  fear  was  in  his 
heart  —  a  fear  of  the  cleanliness  which  may  be  akin  to  god- 
liness, but  to  which  a  pressed  flower  is  as  the  dust  upon  the 
walls.  At  the  door  he  hesitated,  bewildered.  On  his  desk 
was  heaped  a  pile  of  papers,  in  which  letters,  lecture  notes, 
old  pamphlets,  were  scattered  in  contemptuous  disorder. 
Jane  had  just  dropped  an  armful  into  the  fire  which  blazed 
with  that  comfortless  instability  common  to  paper  fires  in 
the  daytime.  She  had  gathered  another  armful  and  was 
advancing  toward  the  hearth,  when  she  saw  the  apparition 
in  the  door-way  and  stopped.  The  professor  was  paler  than 
usual,  and  his  hands  shook  a  little. 


i6a  A  WILLIAMS  ANTHOLOGY 

"Do  you  know  what  you're  doing,  Jane?"  he  asked, 
quietly  enough. 

"Yes,"  she  answered  defiantly,  "I  do.  You've  had  'em 
hanging  around  long  enough." 

"You  know  whose  letters  they  are  ?" 

"Yes,"  she  said.  "Why,  what  —  " 

The  professor,  forgetting  his  rheumatism,  had  advanced 
in  two  strides,  and  with  one  blow  knocked  the  papers  from 
her  arms,  so  that  they  lay  scattered  on  the  floor. 

There  are  wrongs  committed  against  the  sacredness  of 
sentiment  which  cannot  be  put  in  words.  The  professor 
checked  the  torrent  which  rose  to  his  lips :  Jane  would  never 
understand.  The  only  thing  which  she  did  comprehend  was 
a  strength  in  her  brother  of  which  she  had  never  dreamed  — 
not  the  strength  of  the  worm  which  turns,  but  of  the  man 
who  had  endured  because  he  wished  to,  and  whose  endur- 
ance was  at  an  end. 

"You  never  had  a  heart,  did  you,  Jane  ?  "  he  said  finally. 
"The  past  is  not  sacred  to  you,  and  the  present  —  well,  the 
present  does  not  count  for  much  when  one  has  no  dreams  — 
or  visions.  ...  I  think,  Jane,  you  had  better  go." 

"  Where  ?  "  she  questioned  vaguely.  There  was  no  asper- 
ity in  her  voice  now,  only  puzzled  helplessness.  It  was  the 
inevitable  surrender  of  the  commonplace  in  the  light  of  a 
greater  understanding  —  in  the  realization  of  an  unknown 
law  to  the  significance  of  which  some  never  attain.  She  had 
come  inadvertently  to  a  marriage  feast  for  which  she 
had  no  wedding  garment;  and  she  was  naked  and 
ashamed. 

"Anywhere  —  anywhere;  only  go,"  said  the  professor. 
His  thoughts  were  far  away  now. 

"I  shall  not  come  back,  professor  —  perhaps  it  is  better," 
she  said. 

There  was  a  new  tone  in  her  voice,  and  the  professor 


PHILO  CLARKE  CALHOUN  163 

turned  sharply.  Jane  hesitated.  Then  he  caught  sight  of  a 
photograph  lying  among  the  letters  on  the  floor. 

"That,  too,"  he  murmured.  He  stood  and  looked  at  it; 
Jane  passed  out  of  the  room. 

Slowly  and  painfully  the  professor  stooped  down  and  gath- 
ered up  his  wife's  letters  and  his  wife's  photograph.  He  sat 
down  in  the  big  plush  chair  by  the  fireside  and  thought  for  a 
long  time.  He  was  thinking  of  an  old  quotation  from  some 
Sanskrit  poem  —  "  Every  yesterday  a  dream  of  happiness, 
every  to-morrow  a  vision  of  hope  — "  That  was  all  he  could 
remember,  but  his  mind  said  it  over  and  over.  Well,  his 
yesterdays  —  the  yesterdays  of  long  ago  —  were  dreams 
of  happiness  —  he  had  no  visions;  to-morrow  offered  him 
nothing.  After  a  while  he  took  Mary's  picture  and  looked 
at  it.  His  dreams  slowly  settled  to  earth  —  and  he  began  to 
adjust  his  perspective.  It  was  a  long,  long  time  since  he  had 
even  remembered  —  since  the  dream  had  been  more  than  a 
vague  light  shining  through  the  mist.  Now  he  wondered, 
as  he  stared  at  the  pictured  eyes,  so  laughingly  helpless,  at 
the  chin,  so  characterless,  at  the  pretty  mouth  from  which 
no  word  worth  listening  to  had  ever  proceeded  —  wondered 
whether  the  light  was  other  than  a  reflection  from  Youth's 
glamour.  Then  he  took  up  the  letters  and  read  them  one  by 
one.  He  wondered  why  they  seemed  so  shallow  —  why  he 
had  never  noticed  their  irresponsible  dancing  from  light  to 
shade,  from  light  affection  to  unreasonable  and  trifling 
fretfulness.  The  last  letter  he  held  in  his  hand  for  some 
time  after  he  had  read  it.  It  was  written  from  a  summer 
resort.  "You  had  better  not  come  down,"  it  read,  "you 
would  just  spoil  the  delightful  little  time  I  am  having  with 
Mr.  Sanders  —  so  stay  at  home  with  your  books  like  the 
dear  old  bore  you  are.  Please  send  me  .  .  ."  He  remem- 
bered how  it  had  hurt.  He  remembered  shortly  afterwards 
how  she  had  been  taken  ill,  and  how  she  had  chafed  and 


164  A  WILLIAMS  ANTHOLOGY 

feared,  and  how  the  dark  had  taken  her  while  she  cried  in 
terror.  He  remembered  —  so  much.  He  wished  that  he 
had  not  tried  to  remember. 

It  began  to  grow  dark.  The  professor  lifted  the  bundle  of 
letters  and  the  photograph,  and  placed  them  in  the  fire-place 
as  carefully  as  if  they  had  been  burnt-offerings.  Well,  they 
were  —  to  a  dead  Romance.  The  charred  paper  crumbled 
where  he  had  laid  the  letters  —  a  few  black  pieces  floated 
drunkenly  up  the  chimney.  The  fire  had  gone  out  long 
before.  The  professor  fumbled  in  his  pocket  for  a  match. 
When  he  had  found  it  he  struck  it  on  the  brick  hearth,  but 
his  hand  trembled  so  that  it  burnt  his  fingers  and  he  dropped 
it.  He  lit  another,  carefully,  deliberately,  and  held  it  to  the 
pile  of  papers.  They  caught,  the  edges  blackened  and 
curled;  finally  the  whole  mass  blazed  viciously.  The  photo- 
graph had  fallen  to  one  side  and  remained  unburnt.  He 
stooped  over  and  placed  it  on  top  of  the  blazing  papers; 
then  it,  too,  burned. 

A  light  flared  from  the  gas  jet,  and  the  professor  looked 
up.  Jane  stood  there  in  her  black  travelling  dress.  Her  eyes 
were  red  with  tears. 

"Good-bye,  professor,"  she  said.  "I  thought  you 
wouldn't  mind  if  .  .  ."  She  hesitated.  The  professor 
thought  she  looked  rather  pitiful  and  thin  and  tired. 

"No,  Jane,"  he  answered  quietly.  "You  are  not  to  go. 
I  don't  suppose  you  will  understand,  but  my  dreams  have 
all  gone  —  and  the  vision  has  come.  And  I  need  you,  Jane." 

"Then  you  forgive  me?"  she  said  tremulously.  "I  did 
not  know  ..." 

"There  is  nothing  to  forgive,  Jane.  I  did  not  know, 
either." 

Jane  broke  down  and  the  professor  rose  and  put  his  arms 
around  her,  awkwardly,  and  kissed  her.  He  had  not  kissed 
her  in  years.  They  sat  down  together  before  the  hearth  and 


PHILO  CLARKE  CALHOUN  165 

gazed  into  the  blackened  ashes.  He  held  her  hand  in  his. 
Finally  she  spoke.  She  almost  understood  — 

"Shall  we  have  apple  dumplings  for  supper,  professor? 
The  kind  you  used  to  like  ?"  She  was  smiling  now. 

"No,  Jane,"  he  said  gravely,  "we'll  have  peach  pre- 
serves." 

Literary  Monthly,  1909. 


THE  GOOD   GREY  POET 

SONNET 

EDWIN  PARTRIDGE  LEHMAN  '10 

ALL  men  must  feel  the  beauty  of  a  star 
That  rides  in  the  illimitable  space 
Of  heav'n;  the  beauty  of  an  Helen's  face; 
Or  of  a  woodland  water,  glimpsed  afar, 
Where  haze-empurpled  meadows,  undefined 
And  slumbrous,  intervene;  of  quiet,  cool, 
Sequester'd  glades,  where  in  the  level  pool 
The  long  green  rushes  dip  before  the  wind. 

These  all  men  feel.  But  three  times  blessSd  he 
Whose  eye  and  ear,  of  finer  fibre  spun, 
Sense  the  elusive  thread  of  beauty,  where 
The  common  man  hath  deemed  that  none  can  be. 
The  beauty  of  the  commonplace  is  one 
In  substance  with  the  beauty  of  the  rare. 
Literary  Monthly,  1910. 


166 


A  MINOR   POET  TO  HIMSELF 

SONNET 

EDWIN  PARTRIDGE  LEHMAN  '10 

WE  lesser  poets  clothe  in  garb  ornate, 
In  words  of  dizzy  fire,  in  awkward  phrase, 
In  humble  thunderings,  that  only  daze, 
Though  meant  to  rouse  in  flames  of  love  or  hate, 
The  thoughts  that  those  brave  souls  of  stuff  divine, 
Whose  words  breathe  inspiration,  have  long  since 
In  jewelled  lines  set  forth.  Where  we  bear  hints 
Of  grape,  they  bear  the  ruddy  full-pressed  wine. 

And  yet  the  fire  that  thrills  us  is  no  less, 
Nor  coarser,  than  the  fire  that  they,  the  great, 
Have  felt.  Our  pens  are  feebler;  but  the  play 
Of  deep  emotions,  the  fine  stir  and  stress 
That  mark  the  soul's  rare  movements,  are,  in  state, 
Equal  to  those  of  lines  that  make  men  pray. 
Literary  Monthly,  1909. 


167 


HEARTS  AND  TARTS 

AN  OLD  TALE  RETOLD 

DURR  FRIEDLEY  ex-'io 

THERE  was  shouting  and  hand-clapping  from  all  the  gay 
company,  and  a  shower  of  gay  words  for  me  when  I  had  done 
with  my  singing;  and  my  lord,  greatly  pleased,  and  prophe- 
sying that  some  day  when  I  should  be  riper  in  years  I  might 
win  the  crown  of  peacock's  feathers  from  the  hands  of  the 
Princess  Eleanor  herself,  bade  me  come  on  the  morrow  dawn 
to  sing  an  alba  under  the  casement  of  the  bridal  chamber. 
The  bride,  too,  this  new  wife  that  had  taken  my  own  lady's 
place  by  my  lord's  side,  she,  come  but  yesterday  from  her 
thick-witted  Bohemia,  and  whom,  never  loving,  I  might 
always  truly  pity,  spoke  me  fair  and  besought  me  to  make 
verses  thenceforth  in  praise  of  none  save  her.  I  answered  as 
best  I  might,  but  I  fear  me  my  speech  came  but  falteringly, 
what  with  my  heart  beating  against  my  ribs  like  the  armor- 
smith's  hammer,  and  the  thought  uppermost  in  my  mind  of 
the  dark  business  yet  to  come  that  night,  before  the  shame 
and  wrong  of  it  all  might  be  righted  —  a  black  business  that 
none  but  I  in  all  that  company  wotted  of. 

So  presently,  when  all  the  people  made  a  noisy  procession 
to  see  the  bridegroom  and  the  bride  to  their  high  chamber,  I 
did  not  go  among  them,  but  stole  apart  in  the  shadow  and  tar- 
ried there  until  the  serving-folk  had  ceased  their  scurrying 
about  and  the  house  had  grown  quiet  in  its  besotted  sleep. 
Then  I  crept  back  to  a  dark  corner  by  the  great  hearth 
where  the  stone  was  warm  to  the  touch  and  whence  I  might 
see  if  any  passed  along  the  hall.  I  was  all  alone  there  with 
the  drained  goblets,  the  withering  garlands,  and  the  gutted 

168 


DURR  FRIEDLEY  169 

torches,  not  a  soul  abroad,  and  not  a  sound  save  the  breath- 
ing of  the  dormant  stag-hounds  by  the  hearth,  or  the  faint 
disputes  of  the  rats  over  the  pasty  fragments  on  the  table. 

Sitting  thus,  I  would  go  hot  of  a  flash  and  then  cold  just 
as  sudden.  Fear  ?  No,  by  Our  Lady,  but  this  was  the  first 
time  I  had  ever  had  a  finger  in  such  a  pie  as  this  now  baking, 
and  the  strangeness  of  it  made  me  tremble.  But  fear,  pah! 
Besides  I  was  in  the  right,  and  does  that  not  make  the  just 
hand  steady  and  the  pious  eye  true  ?  I  took  up  my  lute  and 
touching  the  strings  so  gently  that  I  myself  could  scarce 
hear,  I  sang,  soft  as  summer  wind  at  even,  so  softly  that 
none,  not  even  the  great  hounds  heard. 
Sang  I: 

The  vision  tender 

Which  thy  love  giveth  me, 
Still  bids  me  render 

My  vows  in  song  to  thee; 
Gracious  and  slender, 

Thine  image  I  can  see, 
Wherever  I  wend,  or 

What  eyes  do  look  on  me. 

Yea,  in  the  frowning  face 
Of  uttermost  disgrace 
Proud  would  I  take  my  place 

Before  thy  feet, 

Lady  whose  aspect  sweet 
Doth  my  poor  soul  efface 
Leaving  but  joy  and  grace 

In  me  to  meet. 

Who  shall  deny  me 

,  The  memory  of  thine  eyes? 

Evermore  by  me 

Thy  lithe  white  form  doth  rise, 
If  God  were  nigh  me 

Still,  in  so  sure  a  wise 
Quick  might  I  hie  me 

Into  His  paradise. 


170  A   WILLIAMS   ANTHOLOGY 

Thus  I  sang  to  the  memory  of  my  true  lady,  for  it  was  the 
last  song  our  brave  Renaud  had  made  for  her  before  he  rode 
away  to  Terre  Sainte.  So  when  the  song  was  finished  I  sat  a 
long  time  still,  taking  counsel  with  my  sad  heart  over  the 
black  past :  how,  four  May-times  ago,  I  had  ridden  blithely 
forth  as  singing  page  in  my  lady's  train,  when  she  left  her 
own  fair  land  of  Aragon  to  be  wedded  to  this  grim  Count 
Fael  of  the  North;  how  from  that  time  forth  I  had  dwelt  here 
in  his  castle,  vassal  to  him  only  because  he  was  lord  to  my 
liege  lady,  but  fearing  alway  his  stern  face,  that  froze  the 
laugh  on  the  lips  and  made  joyousness  die,  stillborn;  how 
my  sole  happiness  had  been  to  serve  my  lady  and  sing  her 
such  songs  as  I  made,  and  my  grief  to  see  her  fair  face  fade 
and  her  grey  eyes  grow  less  laughing  day  by  day.  Then  one 
morning  had  come  this  brave  Renaud,  Chatelain  of  far-off 
Coucy,  seeming  to  bring  in  his  eyes,  his  voice,  his  lute,  all  the 
merry  Spring  times  we  had  missed.  So  he  came  often  and 
often,  teaching  me  the  great  art  of  song  he  knew  so  well; 
and  we  were  all  very  happy.  But  bye-and-bye  he  came  only 
when  my  lord  was  out  a-hawking  or  to  tourney,  and  then 
very  quietly,  but  always  with  his  lute  and  with  song  to  my 
lady.  I  guessed  well  which  way  the  wind  was  blowing,  but 
surely  the  pitiful  Virgin  granted  my  lady,  and  justly,  this 
one  littie  hour  of  happiness.  So  it  went  on  and  on  for  a  long 
time  and  it  seemed  that  my  lord  was  always  away  to  hunt 
or  to  battle,  and  that  when  he  came  back  the  songs  of  Re- 
naud of  Coucy  never  ceased,  but  only  changed  their  place, 
coming  now  by  night  under  my  lady's  casement. 

Then  there  was  spread  abroad  through  the  land  this  great 
fire  in  all  hearts  to  go  to  Terre  Sainte  and  to  deliver  the  holy 
Jerusalem  of  Our  Lord  from  the  curse  of  the  Saracen  hand, 
and  our  poor  Renaud  must  feel  himself  among  the  first  to  go. 
So  one  sad  morning  at  early  dawn  he  had  come  under  my 
lady's  window  and  sung  her  that  farewell  which  so  rilled  my 


DURR  FRIEDLEY  171 

heart,  and  I  had  heard  from  my  post  in  my  lady's  ante- 
chamber. But  oh,  Mother  of  God!  so  had  my  lord,  who, 
being  at  home  and  sleepless,  had  risen  betimes  and  was 
walking  in  the  cool  of  the  morning  on  a  little  pleasaunce 
next  my  lady's  tower,  and  hearing  the  song,  had  looked 
unseen  at  the  singer,  had  guessed  the  bitter  truth,  but  had 
held  his  peace  till  a  riper  time. 

From  then  we  went  on  much  as  before  Renaud  had  come 
to  us,  except  that  I  sang  his  songs  to  my  lady  with  all  the 
art  he  had  taught  me,  while  she  sat  pale  and  fair,  her  hands 
idle  on  the  tambour  frame  and  her  eyes  looking  on  some- 
thing far,  far  off.  So  for  a  long  time  there  was  no  ill-hap, 
only  my  lady's  eyes  grew  dreamier  and  dreamier  and  her 
thoughts  dwelt  less  and  less  in  this  dark  Castle  of  Fael,  and 
she  cared  no  longer  to  go  a-maying  in  the  pleasant,  meadows 
with  her  women.  Then,  one  twilight,  when  my  lord  had  been 
back  from  the  hunt  three  days,  and  when  there  had  been  deep 
wassailing  in  the  hall,  and  my  lady  had  kept  to  her  cham- 
ber the  whole  time  —  one  twilight  I  stumbled  over  a  dead 
man  at  the  foot  of  the  little-used  stair  to  my  lady's  tower 
and,  dragging  the  body  to  the  light,  found  it  to  be  Jaufre 
that  had  been  aforetime  esquire  to  Renaud.  But  why  he 
should  be  lying  here  scarce  an  hour  dead,  here  in  fair  France 
in  this  Castle  of  Fael  under  my  lady's  tower,  when  he  might 
have  been  serving  his  master  in  all  the  blithe  fighting  in 
Terre  Sainte,  —  I  could  not  guess.  But  I  raised  not  hue  nor 
cry  for,  certes,  there  was  some  black  mystery  here;  only 
wept  silently  and  prayed  mercy  on  his  soul  that  had  been 
so  brave  and  so  merry  a  fellow.  After  a  while,  when  my 
eyes  were  less  red,  I  went  and  mingled  among  the  folk  in 
the  hall,  where  there  was  talk  of  how  my  lord  had  passed 
through  to  his  chamber  an  hour  ago,  very  pale  and  with  the 
wine-fumes  all  cleared  away,  it  would  seem,  and  had  let  call 
the  cook,  who  came  back  with  something  under  his  apron 


172  A  WILLIAMS  ANTHOLOGY 

and  looking  as  if  he  had  seen  a  spirit,  but  dumb  as  a  stone. 
Also,  said  they,  my  lord  had  commanded  that  he  and  my 
lady  would  sup  alone  in  her  great  chamber,  and  that  I  only 
should  serve  them. 

So  presently  I  went  up  and  served  my  lord  and  my  lady 
where  they  sat  at  a  little  table  alight  with  many  tapers,  like 
the  shrine  in  the  great  church  at  Soissons,  with  the  goblets 
and  the  silver  dishes  making  a  brave  show  among  them. 
There  was  a  strange  air  over  it  all,  like  the  breathless  mo- 
ment in  a  tourney  when  the  tucket  has  blown  and  the 
knights  pause  before  giving  spur.  My  lady,  when  she  spoke 
at  all,  spoke  in  a  voice  as  of  some  one  stifling,  but  my  lord 
said  never  a  */ord  and  ate  and  drank  but  little,  his  eyes 
always  on  my  lady's  face.  Bye-and-bye  up  came  two  little 
meat  pasties,  borne  by  the  fat  cook  himself,  who  charged  me 
with  a  certain  one  for  my  lady  and  another  for  my  lord.  I 
thought  nothing  whatever  on  this,  for  often  there  was  special 
pasty  made  for  my  lady  without  hare's  meat,  which  she 
disliked.  So  I  served  the  pasties,  and  I  remember  the  faint 
sweetness  of  her  garments,  like  wind  from  apple-blossoms, 
and  how  yellow  was  her  hair  and  how  clear  her  face  in  the 
light  of  the  many  tapers.  That  course,  too,  they  ate  in 
silence,  but  before  I  could  take  away  the  dishes,  my  lord 
broke  the  stillness. 

"Lady,"  quoth  he,  "is  the  flavor  of  this  pasty  pleasing  to 
thy  palate?" 

"Ay,  sir,"  spake  my  lady,  "it  hath  a  piquant  savor  I  have 
not  met  before." 

"Lady,"  said  he,  "it  is  fashioned  of  passing  good  meat 
and  rare,  so  rare  that  I  doubt  thou  wilt  ever  enjoy  its  like 
again.  For  far  countries  have  contributed  to  its  making, 
with  spices  from  Araby  and  Cathay,  and  corn  from  Egypt, 
and  citron  from  Spain,  and  from  the  Terre  Sainte  there  is, 
minced  into  very  little  pieces,  the  heart  of  that  noble  sieur 


DURR  FRIEDLEY  173 

Renaud,  the  worshipful  Chatelain  of  Coucy.  His  esquire  I 
haply  intercepted  with  a  dagger  on  his  way  to  thy  chamber 
with  his  dead  lord's  heart  in  a  silver  casket  as  a  gift  for  thee." 

For  a  while  my  lady  did  not  move,  the  gold  chalice  closed 
in  her  delicate  fingers  half-way  to  her  lips;  then  with  one 
little  breathless  sob  such  as  the  hare  gives  when  the  fangs 
of  the  hound  are  about  to  close  upon  her,  she,  very  slowly, 
set  down  the  goblet,  and,  just  as  slowly,  rose  to  her  feet,  her 
face  the  grey-white  of  the  pearls  at  her  throat. 

"Messire,"  said  she,  and  her  voice  was  clear  and  stead- 
fast, but  very  faint,  like  a  bell  tolling  afar  off  in  the  deep 
forest, "  messire,  thou  hast  done  me  great  honor  in  this  feast, 
and  on  none  daintier,  I  wot  well,  sup  the  Blessed  Saints 
in  Paradise.  But  since  such  viand  has  consecrated  these  my 
lips,  it  is  only  seemly  in  me  to  take  vow  never  to  let  other 
pass  them,  the  which  I  swear  by  the  blood  of  Holy  Jesu." 

Then,  swift  as  thought,  she  fled  from  the  great  chamber 
into  her  closet,  where  she  was  wont  to  pray,  swung  the  door 
to  behind  her,  and  slid  the  bolt.  At  that  sound  up  sprang 
my  lord  and  let  cry  a  great  shout,  so  that  all  the  serving- 
folk  rushed  in  with  great  hubbub  and  stood  stricken  and 
panting,  while  my  lord  called  thrice  at  the  door.  But  no 
answer  came  therefrom,  and  the  great  room  was  very,  very 
still;  until  at  last  the  people  were  commanded  to  beat  down 
the  door.  Then  all  the  folk  crowded  close  together  to  peer 
within,  spoiling  the  table  of  its  waxen  tapers  to  cast  light 
into  the  darkness,  and  there,  O  Kind  Mother  of  God,  lay 
my  lady  all  in  a  little  huddled  heap  before  the  shrine,  an 
empty  vial  in  her  hand,  and  the  breath  departing  from  her 
body.  Then  came  her  women  with  low  sobbing  and  laid 
her  on  her  bridal  bed  and  began  to  make  ready  the  grave 
clothes. 

From  that  time  I  had  lived  on  here  in  the  castle  of  the 
black  shadow,  the  better  that  I  might  do  honor  to  my  lady's 


174  A  WILLIAMS   ANTHOLOGY 

memory  and  bring  surer  retribution  on  him  that  had  been 
my  lord,  for,  certes,  I,  vassal  to  my  lady  alone,  no  longer 
owed  allegiance  to  her  murderer.  Now  at  last  was  come  my 
chance  on  this  night  when  he  had  brought  him  home  a  new 
wife  to  take  the  place  of  her  that  was  but  a  little  while  in 
earth.  Poor  ladies,  both!  and  if  the  thought  that  the  blessed 
Jesu  was  merciful  sometimes  made  me  falter,  the  thought 
that  Messire  God  was  just,  and  that  I  might  be  the  unwor- 
thy instrument  of  His  justice,  made  my  purpose  burn  within 
me  like  a  new  torch.  Thus  the  long  night  drew  near  its  end- 
ing, and  the  great  logs  in  the  fire  had  turned  to  coals  when 
the  appointed  hour  came.  I  stole  in  shadow  from  the  hall, 
my  heart  pounding,  but  my  purpose  very  steady,  and  passed 
silently  through  passages  and  corridors  where  here  and  there 
lay  one  in  besotted  sleep,  until  at  last  I  came  out  in  a  little 
court  by  the  postern.  The  warders  were  long  since  guzzled 
to  a  torpor  in  their  quarters,  so  there  was  neither  let  nor 
hindrance  when  I  slid  the  bolt  and  welcomed  in  Avenging 
Justice  in  the  shape  of  him  who  stood  without,  my  old  lord 
of  Aragon,  uncle  and  protector  to  my  lady.  We  met  with 
silent  greeting  as  his  picked  men  of  arms  filed  in  after  him 
till  the  little  court  was  full;  then  some  were  despatched  to 
possess  the  guard  quarters  and  the  drunken  soldiery,  others 
to  stand  watch  over  the  serving-folk. 

After  I  had  pointed  them  out  the  way  to  the  high  chamber 
where  Fael  lodged  that  night,  I  stood  watching  as  they  went 
in  silent  file  up  the  stone  stair.  Then  I  turned  and  passed 
out  by  the  postern  and  down  the  hill  to  the  encampment  of 
my  countrymen.  I  knew  that  behind  me  Justice  was  taking 
her  relentless  course  and  that  I  had  been  her  minister. 

Literary  Monthly,  1908. 


( 


TO  KEATS 

SONNET1 

I 


JULIAN  PARK  '10 

WHERE,  where  is  Ganymede?  Where  are  the  fair 
That  graced  the  tales  of  Ilium  years  agone? 
Where  are  the  visions  of  earth's  aureate  dawn, 
When  the  wing'd  bearer  bore  Jove's  nectar  rare, 
When  Naiads  laughed  and  wept  and  sunned  their  hair 
At  sun-kissed  pools,  deep-recessed,  where  the  fawn 
And  satyr  sought  the  sloping  cool-cropped  lawn, 
And  glimpsed  the  gods  and  lurking  maidens  there? 
Where  now  is  Ganymede,  and  where  is  Pan? 
Where  is  fair  Psyche,  where  Apollo  brave? 
Are  they  all  fled,  affrighted  at  the  span 
Of  centuries?  Or  sunk  beneath  the  wave 
Of  solemn  Lethe?  No,  rare  poet;  when 
I  scan  thy  pages  they  all  live  again. 

Literary  Monthly,  1907. 

1  Copyright,  1908,  by  Julian  Park. 


175 


MORTAL  VERSE 

WILLIAM  HUTCHESON  WINDOM   'n 

THE  muse  of  poetry  is  a  lady  of  many  whims.  Fancy,  not 
reason,  seems  to  determine  her  actions.  She  loads  the  un- 
tutored ploughman  with  the  most  lavish  gifts,  while  the 
scholar  sits  neglected  in  his  study.  She  places  a  golden 
crown  on  the  brow  of  the  slave  and  flings  a  tasselled  cap  at 
the  master.  And  yet  the  fool's  raiment  is  worn  with  as  seri- 
ous and  dignified  mien  as  is  the  kingly  crown.  She  is  a  mali- 
cious person,  and  while  she  keeps  a  straight  face  before  you, 
it  is  a  hundred  to  one  that  she  winks  behind  your  back.  To 
be  most  trusted  when  she  is  most  deceitful,  that  is  her 
role. 

Very  few  of  us  have  not  at  some  time  come  under  her 
spell.  The  most  guiltless-looking  has  somewhere  in  the 
lower  drawer  of  his  desk  or  at  the  bottom  of  the  tin  box 
where  he  keeps  his  old  papers,  a  manuscript,  which  he  at 
times,  half  tenderly,  half  contemptuously,  lifts  out,  after 
making  sure  that  no  prying  eye  is  near.  He  has  caught  the 
muse  winking.  Were  he  still  illusioned,  that  poem  would 
never  have  wasted  its  aesthetic  fragrance  within  such  close 
confines.  It  would  have  been  most  neatly  printed  in  calen- 
dar form  and  sent  to  appreciative  friends. 

But  though  the  majority  of  us  have  become  chary  of  the 
muse,  there  are  some  who  have  never  seen  through  her  trick- 
ery. To  this  unfortunate  class  belonged  a  certain  Mrs. 
Simons  —  her  real  name  is  charitably  withheld  —  who 
found  that  she  could  gratify  a  moody  disposition,  of  which 
she  was  the  unhappy  possessor,  by  writing  verses.  No  one 
appreciated  them,  but,  far  from  dampening  her  enthusiasm, 
it  afforded  her  a  sort  of  bitter  joy,  that  considerably  in- 


WILLIAM  HUTCHESON  WINDOM          177 

creased  her  already  large  number  of  available  themes.  Her 
poems  now  proclaimed  that  she,  Mrs.  Simons,  was  singing 
to  stocks  and  stones;  no  one  would  listen,  and  her  tender 
nature  would  soon  succumb  to  this  unwarranted  neglect. 
But  triumph  would  come,  when,  as  a  cold  corpse,  she  would 
lie  in  an  open  grave,  with  all  her  formerly  unsympathetic 
friends  and  relatives  weeping  and  wringing  their  hands  at 
the  sad  spectacle.  Alas,  their  grief  and  contriteness  of  heart 
would  be  too  late.  The  little  word  which  might  have  saved 
her  from  this  early  death,  now  spoken,  would  fall  on  deaf 
ears.  At  last  her  verses  would  be  read  and  their  gloomy 
prophecy  would  fill  the  world,  ever  afterwards,  with  remorse. 
But  Mrs.  Simons  did  not  wilt  away  and  die  like  a  flower  de- 
prived of  water  and  sunshine.  She  could  not  overcome  her 
naturally  sound  constitution,  and,  in  spite  of  her  wishes  to 
the  contrary,  she  lived  to  a  ripe  old  age. 

Verse  demands,  as  a  rule,  serious,  if  not  exalted,  themes. 
It  is  strange  how  ambitious  they  sometimes  are.  I  knew  a 
young  man  who  had  never  been  especially  fond  of  poetry 
and  had  never  attempted  to  write  it,  until,  one  day,  he  had 
an  imperative  desire  to  test  his  powers  in  that  line.  And 
what  was  the  modest  subject  that  the  tyro  chose?  A  history 
of  the  earth  from  its  birth  "amidst  the  crash  of  worlds," 
through  the  countless  centuries  until,  cold  and  dry,  it  affords 
no  sustenance  to  life,  and  becomes  a  vast  desert  like  the 
moon.  The  poem  came  to  an  abrupt  end  after  "monsters 
huge"  had  appeared  upon  the  scene,  and,  to  my  knowledge, 
was  never  resumed. 

Among  the  many  who  have  advertised  their  bigotry  or 
their  ignorance  by  publishing  original  compositions,  for 
which  it  would  be  hard  to  find  any  suitable  descriptive  term, 
are  two  women,  one  of  whom  is  well  known.  They  are  Julia 
A.  Moore,  self-styled  "The  Sweet  Singer  of  Michigan," 
whose  works  are  included  by  Dr.  Crothers  in  The  Hundred 


178  A  WILLIAMS  ANTHOLOGY 

Worst  Books,  and  a  Mrs.  L.,  a  native  of  Rhode  Island,  but 
"by  adoption  a  westerner,"  as  she  explains  in  her  introduc- 
tion. If  it  were  a  question  of  which  had  the  less  poetic 
merit  it  would  be  hard  indeed  to  decide  between  them,  but 
as  to  the  sincerity  of  the  one  and  the  pomposity  of  the  other, 
there  can  be  no  doubt.  The  Sweet  Singer  plays  upon  the 
strings  of  her  own  heart  in  a  way  that  makes  your  eyes  grow 
dim.  She  has  moments  of  modesty,  too,  about  her  work  that 
are  very  gratifying.  But  Mrs.  L.  is  cold  and  egotistical; 
lifted  so  high  above  the  ordinary  plane  of  life,  in  her  estima- 
tion, that  no  arrows  of  criticism  can  possibly  reach  her.  The 
introduction  to  her  book  Mariamne,  Queen  of  the  Jews,  and 
Other  Poems,  is  concise  and  statistical.  One  can  see  that  she 
has  perfect  self-confidence  in  her  abilities. 

"The  authoress  is  a  native  of  Rhode  Island,  but  by  adop- 
tion a  westerner. 

"  Graduated  from  the  Female  College,  Oxford,  Ohio,  when 
under  the  control  of  the  Rev.  John  Walter  Scott,  D.  D. 

"  Married  and  lived  thirteen  wedded  years  in  Covington, 
Kentucky.  Then,  urged  by  her  only  brother,  Levi  L.,  a 
lawyer  residing  at  M.,  Illinois,  she  removed  (1870)  to  that 
city.  Here  she  engaged  in  arduous  and  unremitting  study, 
laboring  to  deserve  the  esteem  of  the  gifted  and  cultured 
people  with  whom  she  had  cast  her  lot.  With  the  same  laud- 
able ambition  that  moves  the  man  of  business  to  be  identi- 
fied as  successful  in  his  life  career,  the  writer,  whose  only 
wealth  is  the  acquisition  of  knowledge  and  the  cultivation  of 
an  inherited  gift,  comes  before  the  public  in  a  pursuit  that 
has  ever  proved  the  animating  ally  of  education  and  good 
breeding  and  the  strong  cordon  of  social  refinement." 

Her  first  poem,  Mariamne,  Queen  of  the  Jews,  has  a  foot- 
note which  contains  this  interesting,  if  rather  incompre- 
hensible, sentence: 

"The  reader  must  take  the  production  with  its  stamp  of 


WILLIAM  HUTCHESON  WINDOM          179 

originality,  which  is  the  plainer  synonym  of  afflatus  or  in- 
spiration." 

Undoubtedly  she  successfully  diagnosed  the  case. 

Two  passages  from  this  remarkable  poem,  which  is  her 
most  ambitious  effort,  will  bear  quoting: 

"The  swooping  winds  across  the  spicery  snare, 
The  aromatic  smells  of  redolent  wood, 
Camphor,  cinnamon,  cassia,  are  incense  there, 
And  the  tall  aloe  soaring  into  the  flood 
Of  pearlaceous  moonlight  stimulates  the  air 
Which  scarcely  soughs,  so  heavy  with  vesper  scents; 
The  calamus  growing  by  the  pond,  did  spare 
A  spicey  breath,  with  sweet  sebaceous  drents 
Of  nard,  and  Jiled's  balsamic  tree,  balm  sweet, 
Were  all  which  filled  this  estival  retreat." 

The  other: 

"The  problem  of  Existence  here  when  tried, 
God  remains  God  though  matter  returns  to  dust; 
The  fool  can  read  this  truth;  but,  if  denied, 
Does  spirit  return  to  be  from  what  it  came? 
Is  there  reunition  of  love  with  God  as  at  first? 
The  Brahmin  trusts  his  soul  even  higher,  its  flame 
Refines  in  th'  Nirvana  that  absorbs  its  load, 
Though  this  divine  psychism  seems  lotus  flowed, 
Seems  spirit  inane  as  that  on  flowers  bestowed; 
Islamism  prepictures  the  voluptuary's  abode 
Of  Love  unending:  It  is  'Love,  love,  love,' 
Which  souls  have  cried  since  eons  began  to  move." 

Now  it  is  an  infinite  relief  to  turn  from  this  inflated  but 
would-be  stately  style  to  the  homely  diction  of  the  Sweet 
Singer,  as  found  in  the  Sentimental  Song  Book.  Her  book  of 
verse  is  small  and  insignificant,  and  has  not  the  prosperous, 
self-satisfied  appearance  of  Mrs.  L.'s  volume,  with  its  gold 
letters  shining  from  a  green  cloth  background.  At  the  top 
of  its  paper  cover  the  price  is  modestly  given:  25  cents*.  Then 
is  printed:  "The  Sweet  Singer  of  Michigan  Salutes  the 


i8o  A  WILLIAMS  ANTHOLOGY 

Public,"  with  a  likeness  of  the  author  directly  beneath.  She 
is  depicted  as  a  strong,  masculine  woman  with  heavy,  black 
eyebrows,  large,  black  eyes,  and  a  mass  of  coarse,  black  hair 
tumbling  over  her  shoulders  in  a  way  that  makes  one  think 
that  she  has  washed  and  sunned  it,  and  has  forgotten  to 
put  it  up  again.  She  wears  a  sort  of  crown  or  band  at  the 
top  of  her  head.  There  is  nothing  in  the  homely  face,  with 
the  squat  nose  and  thick  lips,  that  would  betray  sentimental- 
ism,  and  yet  those  honest  eyes  were  probably  continually 
suffused  with  the  tears  for  which  her  ultra-sensitive  nature 
was  responsible.  Below  her  picture  follows  this  simple  intro- 
duction, without  reference  to  any  "laudable  ambition," 
"acquisition  of  knowledge,"  or  "cultivation  of  inherited 
gifts." 

"DEAR  FRIENDS:  This  little  book  is  composed  of  truthful 
pieces.  All  those  which  speak  of  being  killed,  died  or 
drowned,  are  truthful  songs;  others  are  'more  truth  than 
poetry/  They  are  all  composed  by  the  author. 

"I  was  born  in  Plainfield,  and  lived  there  until  I  was  ten 
years  of  age.  Then  my  parents  moved  to  Algoma,where  they 
have  lived  until  the  present  day,  and  I  live  near  them,  one 
mile  west  of  Edgerton. 

"  JULIA  A.  MOORE." 

Among  those  pieces  "which  speak  of  being  killed,  died  or 
drowned,"  —  and  it  was  on  these  melancholy  topics  that  she 
was  at  her  best  —  are  four  poems  which  deal  with  the  sad 
history  of  the  House  family.  They  seemed  to  have  had  the 
most  abominable  luck.  When  they  could  n't  get  shot  or  in- 
duce the  small-pox  to  hasten  their  departure  from  this 
world  of  care,  they  passed  away  for  no  reason  at  all.  Some- 
how they  just  could  not  keep  alive.  Martin  House  is  the 
first  of  whom  she  speaks.  He  enlisted  with  a  friend  in  the 


WILLIAM  HUTCHESON  WINDOM          181 

federal  army  at  Grand  Rapids.  The  final  stanza  of  "  The 
Two  Brave  Soldiers  "  discloses  their  fate  — > 

"  It  was  down  in  old  Virginia 

Those  noble  soldiers  fell, 
In  the  battle  of  Hanover  town, 

As  many  a  one  can  tell. 
They  fought  through  many  a  battle 

And  obeyed  their  captain's  call, 
Till,  alas,  the  bullets  struck  them 

That  caused  them  to  fall." 

Hattie  House  had  no  reasonable  excuse  for  dying,  but  she 
managed  to  fool  her  mother: 

"Hattie  had  blue  eyes  and  light  flaxen  hair, 

Her  little  heart  was  light  and  gay, 
And  she  said  to  her  mother  that  morning  fair, 
'Mother,  can  I  go  out  and  play?' 

"Her  mother  tied  her  little  bonnet  on, 

Not  thinking  it  would  be  the  last 

She  would  ever  see  her  dear  little  one 

In  this  world,  little  Hattie  House. 

"She  left  the  house,  this  merry  little  girl, 

That  bright  and  pleasant  day  — 
She  went  out  to  play  with  two  little  girls 
That  were  about  her  age. 

"  She  was  not  gone  but  a  little  while 

When  they  heard  her  playmates  call  — 
Her  friends  hastened  there  to  save  the  child, 
But,  alas,  she  was  dead  and  gone. 

"Those  little  girls  will  not  forget 

The  day  little  Hattie  died, 
For  she  was  with  them  when  she  fell  in  a  fit, 
While  playing  by  their  side." 

Lois  House,  however,  did  not  have  to  resort  to  any  subter- 


182  A  WILLIAMS  ANTHOLOGY 

fuge.  The  divine  Providence  spared  her  the  trouble.  She 
had  just  married  an  exemplary  young  man,  who  "had 
courted  her  a  long  time  in  triumph  and  glee,"  and 

"They  loved  each  other  dearly  and  never  deceived, 
But  God  he  did  part  them,  one  which  he  laid  low, 
The  other  He  left  with  his  heart  full  of  woe." 

The  last  verse  almost  has  a  touch  of  poetry  in  it: 

"They  placed  her  fair  form  in  the  coffin  so  cold, 
And  placed  there  Joy's  picture  as  they  had  been  told; 
They  bore  her  to  her  grave,  all  were  in  sad  gloom, 
And  gently  laid  her  down  to  rest  in  her  tomb." 

In  "  William  House  and  Family  "  she  disposes  of  them 
collectively: 

"They  once  did  live  at  Edgerton, 
They  once  did  live  at  Muskegon, 
From  there  they  went  to  Chicago, 
Which  proved  their  fatal  overthrow." 

Pathos  evidently  appealed  to  Julia  Av  Moore  in  a  way  that 
was  not  to  be  resisted.  She  was  also  very  careful  about  facts. 
For  instance,  what  could  be  more  explicit  than  these  lines 
from  "  The  Brave  Page  Boys  "  ? 

"John  S.  Page  was  the  eldest  son  — 

Edward  C.  Fish  was  his  brother-in-law; 
They  both  enlisted  in  the  Mechanic, 

And  served  their  time  in  the  war. 
Fernand  O.  Page  was  the  second  son; 

He  served  in  the  Third  Infantry; 
He  was  wounded  and  lost  both  his  feet 

On  duty  at  Yorktown  siege." 

Enos  Page  was  rather  unfortunate: 

"In  the  Eighth  Michigan  Cavalry 
This  boy  he  did  enlist; 


WILLIAM  HUTCHESON  WINDOM  183 

His  life  was  almost  despaired  of, 

On  account  of  his  numerous  fits, 
Caused  by  drinking  water  poisoned  — 

The  effect  cannot  outgrow; 
In  Northern  Alabama,  I  hear, 

Came  this  dreadful  blow." 

In  "  The  Grand  Rapids  Cricket  Club,"  one  of  the  few 
poems  that  deal  only  with  minor  misfortunes,  a  certain 
player,  Mr.  Follet,  tried  a  good  remedy  for  a  novel  accident. 

"And  Mr.  Follet  is  very  brave, 

A  lighter  player  than  the  rest, 
He  got  struck  severe  at  the  fair  grounds, 
For  which  he  took  a  rest." 

I  could  quote  from  the  Sentimental  Song  Book  until  I  had 
entirely  exhausted  the  material,  and  each  verse  would  create 
a  surprise.  And  yet,  in  spite  of  the  grammatical  distortions, 
in  spite  of  the  sentimentality,  there  is  something  pleasing 
in  the  absolute  unaff  ectedness  of  the  little  book.  That  Mrs. 
Moore  has  been  appreciated  is  borne  out  by  the  fact  that 
when  she  travelled  from  town  to  town  she  used  to  be  met  at 
the  station  by  a  brass  band  or  by  a  delegation  of  prominent 
citizens.  Wherever  she  went  she  was  humored,  and  her 
numerous  friends  vied  with  each  other  in  showing  her  atten- 
tions. All  this  she  took  as  a  natural  recognition  of  her  genius, 
and  happily  was  never  undeceived.  However  innocent  the 
Sentimental  Song  Book  may  be  of  any  literary  value,  the 
writer's  sincere  attempt  to  express  her  ideas  are  as  plain  as 
the  face  which  embellishes  the  cover  of  the  book.  She  was 
an  ignorant  woman,  and  her  utter  disregard  of  grammatical 
and  poetic  principles  can  be  easily  forgiven.  But  what  can 
be  said  in  behalf  of  Mrs.  L.,  a  graduate  of  the  Oxford  Female 
College,  Ohio,  when,  in  a  piece  entitled  "  Genesis,"  occurs 
this  passage? 


184  A  WILLIAMS  ANTHOLOGY 

"Once,  the  stars  the  Lord  has  scattered 
Bountifully  on  the  sky, 
Some  soul  thought  they  there  were  spattered 
For  an  ornamental  dye; 
The  huge  Opalescent  Concave 
Wore  the  polish  of  a  stone 
Which  the  fracturing  fires  engrave 
With  a  thunder-splitting  tone; 
And  the  things  they  claimed  as  sponsors 
For  the  young  religious  thought 
Were  the  things  that  were  the  monsters 
Recently  from  chaos  brought. 
Then  the  tree  inlaced  in  corsets 
Laced  some  maiden  in  its  arms, 
'T  was  a  lover's  trick,  to  toss  its 
Purgatories  at  her  charms, 
And  the  lilies  in  the  shallows, 
And  the  echoes  'mong  the  hills, 
And  the  torrents  in  their  wallows, 
And  the  wind's  great  organ  mills, 
And  the  waters  of  the  fountain, 
And  the  mists  upon  the  river 
Had  the  gods  who  made  a  mountain 
Of  our  cosmographic  sliver." 

Evidently  they  did  not  give  as  thorough  a  course  in  the 
pronunciation  of  French  at  the  Oxford  Female  College  as 
they  do  here  at  Williams.  At  least  this  deplorable  fact  is 
indicated  by  the  first  stanza  of  "  La  Fille  du  Regiment ": 

"Proudly  marches  on  the  nation 

Which  its  patriots  will  defend, 
But  remains  a  loyal  station 

With  its  daughters  to  commend, 
Cheerfully  to  send  the  heroes 

Who  are  called  to  field  and  tent, 
Cheers  for  those  who  hold  the  vetoes, 

Vive  la  Fille  du  Regiment." 

Shall  we  attribute  it  to  a  coincidence  that  Mrs..  L.'s  best 


WILLIAM  HUTCHESON  WINDOM          185 

poem  strikes  a  very  familiar  chord?  It  is  called  the  "  River 
of  Tears": 

"The  world  is  swept  by  a  sorrowful  flood, 

The  flood  of  a  river  of  tears, 
Poured  from  the  exhaustless  human  heart 

For  thousands  and  thousands  of  years. 
It  is  sweeping  thousands  and  thousands  of  lives 

On  its  currents,  swift  and  strong, 
O  the  river  of  tears  for  thousands  of  years 

Has  swept  like  a  flood  along." 

Perhaps  its  poetic  merit  may  be  explained  by  the  first  few 
lines  of  Bryant's  "  Flood  of  Years  ": 

"A  mighty  hand  from  an  exhaustless  urn 
Pours  forth  the  never  ending  flood  of  years 
Among  the  nations.  How  the  rushing  waves 
Bear  all  before  them!" 

—  and  so  on.  There  is  no  need  of  continuing. 

But  why  disturb  the  bones  of  poor  Mrs.  L.,  who  is  but  one 
of  the  many  thousands  of  contributors  to  mortal  verse?  May 
they  rest  in  peace.  She  had  her  dream,  and  never  woke  out 
of  it.  Undoubtedly  she  was  all  the  happier  as  it  was.  And 
now  let  the  Sweet  Singer  raise  her  harmonious  voice  once 
more,  and  close  this  paper  with  the  last  stanza  of  her  poem, 
"The  Author's  Early  Life,"  which  I  think  is  the  most  beauti- 
fully extraordinary  —  since  I  cannot  say  extraordinarily 
beautiful  —  of  the  entire  collection. 

"My  childhood  days  have  passed  and  gone, 

And  it  fills  my  heart  with  pain 
To  think  that  they  will  nevermore 

Return  to  me  again. 
And  now  kind  friends,  what  I  have  wrote, 

I  hope  you  will  pass  o'er, 
And  not  criticise  as  some  have  done, 

Hitherto  herebefore." 
Literary  Monthly,  1910. 


IN  THE  DONJON  KEEP 

GILBERT  W.  GABRIEL  1912 

Ax  first  the  darkness  was  impenetrable,  black  and  choking. 
There  was  no  sound,  except  for  the  occasional  soft  spatter 
of  water  that  dripped  to  the  stone  floor  from  the  mouldy 
ceiling.  Then  through  a  narrow,  barred  window  came  the 
moonlight  in  a  mottled  shaft  of  phosphorescent  green,  and 
licked  its  way  across  the  floor,  to  the  edge  of  the  bier.  It 
shone  on  two  kneeling,  crouching  figures,  and  full  on  the 
face  of  the  corpse. 

The  eunuch,  a  great,  gaunt  negro,  lifted  his  head  and 
showed  his  red,  rolling  eyes  and  his  skin,  gleaming  like 
bronze  in  the  moonlight.  "  He  was  my  friend,"  he  whimpered, 
bending  over  the  loathsome  dead.  "He  was  my  friend." 

"Aye,  aye,"  mused  the  jester,  fingering  the  mildewed 
shroud,  "and  sooth,  he  was  the  finest  mute  that  ever 
crooked  a  back  in  the  Bohemian  court.  Famous  he  was,  all 
hereabouts,  to  the  marches  of  the  northern  sea." 

"And  so  high  was  he  in  the  king's  favor  and  graces!" 
snivelled  the  eunuch.  "They  shall  never  find  another  such 
as  he." 

"True,  true;  and  yet  hast  heard  another  must  be  found? 
The  king  has  thus  ordered:  another  mute  must  now  be  got- 
ten to  take  his  place  —  another  just  so  strange."  The  jester 
bent  over  the  face  and  shuddered.  A  few  swift  clouds  sped 
across  the  moon,  and  caused  the  greenish  shadows  under  the 
misshapen  features  to  flicker  and  melt  grotesquely.  Then 
the  light  shone  clear  again  and  he  saw  the  broken,  twisted 
nose;  and  the  eyes  that  stared  obstinately  from  their  split 
lids;  and  the  gaping,  grinning  mouth  that,  years  ago,  the 
torturers  had  cut  wide  upon  each  seared  and  tattooed  cheek; 

186 


GILBERT  W.   GABRIEL  187 

and  the  swollen,  split  lips  that  could  not  hide  where  once 
had  been  a  tongue.  He  passed  his  hand  along  the  shroud 
and  lightly  touched  the  ugly  hump  where  the  spine  had  been 
pressed  and  snapped,  and  the  slanted  shoulders  and  the 
twisted  hips  and  legs.  "Thou  wast  so  laughable  to  all  the 
court,"  he  cried.  "Thy  bones  were  so  comically  broken. 
And  now,  another  must  be  made  for  the  court's  delight,  just 
so  comical  as  thou.  Aye,  aye,"  and  he  sighed  heavily,  "  Jesu 
have  pity  on  the  child's  face  of  some  young  page  or  squire." 

The  iron  door  behind  them  swung  suddenly  open,  and  a 
captain  of  the  palace  guard  clanked  into  the  donjon.  The 
flare  of  a  spluttering  flambeau,  which  he  held  in  his  hand, 
caused  them  to  blink  and  shrink  away,  beyond  its  yellow 
circle.  But  he  thrust  it  close  to  their  faces  with  a  cross  oath. 
"Silence,"  he  growled,  "cease  thy  shrill  chatterings.  What 
dost  thou  here,  foul  black?  By  what  right  hast  thou  left  thy 
post  before  the  ladies'  hall  —  before  the  chamber  of  the 
king's  favorite?" 

"He  was  my  friend,"  the  eunuch  faltered.  "I  wished  to 
pray  for  him  that  was  my  friend." 

"Pray?  To  thy  heathen  gods?"  Upon  his  coat  of  mail 
the  captain  thumped  a  vigorous  sign  of  the  cross.  "  Go,  get 
thee  back,  lest  aught  should  happen  in  thy  absence.  Thou 
knowest  the  penalty,  both  for  thee  and  any  gallant  that  dare 
pass  the  Lady  Suelva's  portal.  Thou  know'st  the  penalty," 
and  he  slapped  his  thigh  with  the  flat  of  the  halberd  that 
hung  from  his  girdle. 

"Hush!"  Faint  from  across  the  courtyard  came  a  voice 
singing,  a  high  fresh  tenor  voice.  The  black  sprang  to  his 
feet  and  stood  rooted  in  trembling  horror.  "From  what 
corner  of  the  yard  comes  that  serenading?"  thundered  the 
captain.  The  jester  rose  to  the  window;  he  looked  first  out 
into  the  courtyard,  then  back  at  the  eunuch,  who  stood 
picking  nervously  at  his  tunic;  then  out  of  the  window  again. 


i88  WILLIAMS   ANTHOLOGY 

"From  below  the  Lady  Suelva's  chambers.  See!  Some  one 
is  climbing  the  winding  steps  of  her  balcony!" 

"And  Lady  Suelva?  Has  she  come  out  on  the  balcony?" 
"I  cannot  see;  a  til  ting-post  stands  directly  in  the  way." 
In  the  furthest  corner  of  the  donjon,  a  dim  black  square 
disclosed  an  ugly  trap  leading  down  to  the  torture-room.  To 
the  trap-door  the  captain  bounded,  and  from  above,  they 
could  hear  the  thump  of  his  feet  on  the  creaking  ladder.  He 
was  up  again  in  an  instant,  chuckling  viciously.  "I  found 
them  all  asleep,  the  old  torturer  and  his  two  sons.  But  ho! 
they  are  awake  now  —  I  kicked  them  hard  awake.  They 
have  much  to  do  to-night."  He  stopped  for  a  moment  at  the 
big  iron  door.  "  Wait  here  till  I  return,"  he  commanded,  and 
ran  stealthily  into  the  courtyard. 

The  eunuch  fell  to  his  knees  again,  and  prayed  jabber- 
ingly  —  this  time  for  his  own  soul.  The  jester  softly  trod 
the  length  and  breadth  of  the  stone  flaggings,  and  stopped 
to  peer  at  the  corpse  and  its  face.  "  Jesu  ha'  mercy,"  he  re- 
peated ofttimes;  "Jesu  ha'  mercy!" 

The  pulsating  suspense  broke  with  the  reSntrance  of  the 
captain.  Over  his  shoulder  was  slung  a  dark,  limp  burden 
which  he  swung  down  and  held  out  in  the  crook  of  his  thick 
arms,  as  if  it  were  a  doll. 

"'Twas  a  tussle  the  young  peacock  gave  me,"  he  said 
thickly.  "Look  ye  —  I  have  lost  my  flambeau,  but  come  to 
the  window  and  take  a  squint  at  him."  He  held  the  figure 
up  to  the  grating,  to  where  the  moon  shone  pale  on  its  face 
and  tumbled  locks  and  over  its  gay-colored  tunic,  and  lus- 
tered  its  silken  hose. 

"By  St.  Godfrey,  what  a  handsome  lad!   Who  is  he?" 

"Methinks  he  is  a  squire  but  lately  come  to  court,  so 

there'll  be  few  to  miss  him,  when  the  night's  work  is  done." 

The  jester  sighed.    "  So  young  he  is  and  fair.    See  that 

great  purple  welt  across  his  forehead." 


GILBERT  W.   GABRIEL  189 

"Twas  where  I  clubbed  him  senseless." 

"And  must  thou  torture  him  to  death?  Must  he  so 
surely  die?" 

"Aye,  so  run  my  orders.  He  will  die  —  and  thou  too, 
black.  Hold  thou  my  burden,  fool,  whilst  I  undo  my  hal- 
berd!" 

From  the  kneeling  eunuch  came  a  shriek  and  moan  and 
incoherent  jabbering.  The  captain  cursed  and  stayed  his 
uplifted  arm. 

"It  is  too  dark  to  strike,"  he  growled.  "Wait  till  the 
moon  is  from  behind  that  cloud.  Ugh!  It  is  black  here, 
pitchy  black."  A  full,  heavy  minute  elapsed,  disturbed  by 
the  scuffle  of  the  negro's  feet  as  he  ran  and  cowered  in  the 
furthest  corner,  and  the  soft  creaking  of  the  iron  door,  and 
a  sudden  suck  and  soughing  of  the  night  air.  Then  the  moon 
slipped  slyly  from  its  frayed  woolly  covers,  and  relit  the 
donjon  keep.  "Holy  God  and  Father,"  and  the  halberd 
clanked  noisily  to  the  floor.  In  the  half  open  doorway  stood 
the  king's  favorite,  the  Lady  Suelva.  Against  the  frosted 
green  background  of  the  moonlit  courtyard  her  shimmering 
robe,  her  white  face  and  throat,  and  her  long  hair  of  flaming 
copper  stood  out  gloriously.  She  did  not  move,  but  stayed 
peering  through  the  unaccustomed  gloom,  as  if  to  recognize 
the  dark  figures  before  her.  The  eunuch  flung  himself  at  her 
feet,  and  squirmed  and  grovelled.  "  Save  me,  lady  save  me ! " 
But  she  thrust  him  from  her  with  a  sharp  push  of  her  foot. 

The  captain  turned  to  the  jester.  "Take  down  thy  bur- 
den," he  whispered.  "Down  to  the  torture  room  with  him." 

But  the  lady  heard  and  came  forward.  "No,"  she  said 
imperiously,  "lay  him  down  upon  the  floor,  and  let  me  see 
what  has  been  done  with  him." 

The  captain  grumbled  and  swore  under  his  heavy  mus- 
tache. "Take  him  away,  fool.  Do  as  I  bid!" 

But  the  lady  stepped  between.  "Stop!  Let  me  see  him." 


i9o  A   WILLIAMS   ANTHOLOGY 

Her  voice  rose  high  and  shaking;  she  was  fast  losing  her 
stately  calmness. 

The  captain  sneered.  "See  him!  And  why?  Have  you 
not  seen  enough  of  him  this  night?" 

"No,  no!  he  was  but  singing  to  me!" 

"Yet  I  found  you  with  him  on  the  balcony." 

"I  swear  it,"  she  repeated,  "he  was  but  singing  to  me." 

The  captain  heaved  his  shoulders  with  so  great  a  shrug 
that  the  ringlets  of  his  coat  of  mail  jangled  and  clinked. 
"I  have  my  orders,"  he  said,  "which  come  from  the  king 
himself." 

"  The  king?  "  She  snapped  her  fingers.  "  And  who  orders 
the  king?  He  would  obey  my  slightest  wish." 

"No  use,  dame.  Nor  heaven  nor  hell  could  save  this 
squire  from  his  death.  As  for  the  eunuch,  he  will  mayhap 
be  spared,  if  thou  so  wish  it.  He  is  thy  servant  —  and  his 
life  at  thy  command."  The  negro  whined  and  moaned  and 
crept  to  kiss  her  feet. 

But  Suelva  flung  herself  back.  "What  care  I  for  his  foul 
black  hide?  'T  is  the  young  squire's  life  I  crave." 

"Then  both  must  die." 

"Mother  Mary!  But  let  me  hold  him  in  my  arms."  She 
tore  the  jester's  burden  from  him,  and  staggering  under 
its  weight,  turned  to  the  middle  of  the  room.  Then  she  saw, 
for  the  first  time,  the  bier  and  what  it  bore.  She  gasped,  and 
let  the  squire's  body  sink  in  a  huddled  heap  on  the  floor. 
"Who  is  it?"  she  asked,  crossing  herself.  She  looked  closer. 
"Yes,  I  remember  thee,  fond  old  mute.  Pha!  but  thou 
smellest  of  the  grave.  And  why  have  they  left  thee  lying 
here,  this  fortnight?  " 

From  the  dark  corner  came  a  stifled  cry  and  piping  gurgle. 
"My  lady,  oh,  my  lady!" 

"How  now,  black;  let  go  my  skirt." 

"Mistress,  let  me  whisper  close.  He  need  not  die,  thy 
lover." 


GILBERT  W.   GABRIEL  191 

"Hast  thou  some  scheme?  Quick,  tell  it  to  me." 

"First  speak  the  word  to  let  me  live." 

"Aye,  we  spare  thy  life  —  but  haste!" 

"He  is  but  a  young  stripling;  his  bones  are  not  yet  set 
and  hardened.  Let  him  be  made  the  king's  mute." 

The  jester  heard  the  words.  He  flung  himself  upon  the 
eunuch,  and  grasping  his  throat,  throttled  him  until  his 
black  face  ran  with  shiny  sweat  and  his  great  white  eyes 
hung  nearly  from  their  sockets.  "I  feared  that  thou  wouldst 
dare  to  speak  of  that  —  squealing  coward  —  I  might  have 
known  it. "  Again  he  whacked  the  woolly  head  against  the 
pavement. 

The  captain  dragged  them  apart.  "Why  so  wroth,  fool? " 
he  asked.  "  Sooth,  't  is  a  wise  plan,  and  one  to  save  me  a  deal 
of  trouble.  For  it  was  my  special  commission  from  the  king 
to  furnish  a  new  mute.  And  since  the  lad  must  suffer,  lady 
—  come,  by  the  Holy  Tokens,  I  '11  make  a  bond  with  thee. 
I'll  spare  his  life,  an'  ye  say  nought  of  it  to  the  king.  I'll 
keep  intact  his  pulse  and  true  heart's  beat;  and  thou,  in 
turn,  give  me  his  lower  limbs  to  twist  and  his  doll's  face  to 
alter  —  only  to  alter  slightly,"  and  he  laughed  lewdly. 

Lady  Suelva  moved  to  look  at  the  dead  mute;  but  the 
wily  black  had  thrust  himself  before  the  face  and  hid  its 
loathsomeness.  "Do  as  he  bids,  mistress,"  he  whispered. 
"Let  thy  lover  live  and  love  thee.  Let  him  have  life." 

"And  what  a  life!"  cried  the  jester.  "Oh,  noble  lady,  be 
merciful  and  let  him  die." 

"  Would  not  the  king  or  some  one  recognize  him? "  she 
asked. 

"  No,"  answered  the  captain;  "he  is  but  lately  come  to 
court  —  and  anyway,  there's  none  would  recognize  him 
after—" 

"Might  he  not  some  day  blurt  out  the  truth?" 

"Ho,  you  forget:  mutes  make  safe  lovers,  for  they  have 
no  tongues." 


i9a  A  WILLIAMS   ANTHOLOGY 

She  recoiled.  "True.  And  so,  may  he  love  me  fearlessly 
in  such  a  guise?  " 

"Aye,  and  thou  him  —  that  we  promise  thee." 

She  dropped  to  her  knees,  beside  the  unconscious  squire. 
She  took  his  head  in  her  lap,  and  with  her  warm  hands 
brushed  back  the  locks  from  his  bruised  forehead.  "He  is 
so  beautiful,"  she  sighed,  wavering.  "It  were  a  shame  — " 

"He  would  never  be  beautiful  again,"  said  the  jester. 

"Rather  an  ugly  lover  than  a  dead  one,"  retorted  the 
captain. 

Lady  Suelva  fell  to  sobbing.  "  Canst  thou  not  spare  him 
altogether?" 

"Nay!  nay!"  He  stamped  his  foot  impatiently.  "And 
it  were  best  to  hurry." 

"Only  wait  till  he  awakes  from  the  hard  blow  thou 
gavest  him.  He  will  decide  for  himself." 

"  'T  will  be  by  far  less  painful  if  done  now." 

"Then  take  him." 

"Think  well  and  long,"  said  the  jester.  "Tis  a  life  of 
hell  thou  wouldst  prolong  him  to.  The  jeers,  the  coarse  and 
ribald  laughter  of  the  court,  the  scorn  and  teasing  —  aye  — 
God!  I  know  the  life,  for  I  too  suffer  as  a  courtier's  play- 
thing —  and  yet,  I  have  a  straight  body  and  a  human  face 
and  a  tongue  to  answer  with.  What  canst  thou  offer  him  to 
compensate  for  all  his  loss  and  misery?" 

She  looked  up  proudly.  "My  love.  Is  it  not  enough?" 

The  fool  bowed.  "It  must  be,  when  kings  crave  for  it. 
Yet  beauty  such  as  thine  can  only  love  the  beautiful." 

"Then  I  shall  pity  him  —  with  all  my  heart's  strength; 
I'll  comfort  his  poor  life  with  sweetest  pity." 

"Lady,  pity  is  the  meanest  gate  of  love." 

The  captain  growled  and  swung  his  halberd  viciously. 
"Keep  thy  wit  for  the  king's  ear,"  he  said.  "The  lady 
Suelva  hath  spoken  her  decision.  We  dally  no  longer." 


GILBERT  W.  GABRIEL  193 

He  bent  down  and  lifted  the  squire's  body  over  his  back. 
Then  he  turned  to  the  eunuch.  "Take  thou  the  old  mute's 
corpse.  I  have  kept  his  carcass  these  seven  days,  to  serve 
as  a  pattern.  So  carry  it  down." 

The  black's  eyes  dilated  again,  and  he  shrank  back.  "I 
dare  not  touch  it.  He  was  my  friend." 

"Bah.  Then  take  thou  my  load,"  and  in  exchange  the 
captain  slung  the  corpse  across  his  own  shoulders.  As  he 
crossed  the  room,  the  loose  head  showed  upside-down  over 
his  back,  bobbing  and  flabbily  wagging  its  grin-split  face. 

The  lady  stared  at  it  rigidly.  She  seized  the  jester's  arm. 
"And  is  his  face  to  be  a  counterpart  of  that  one?" 

"Aye  —  every  feature  exactly." 

The  captain  threw  open  the  trap-door  and  went  down  the 
ladder.  The  eunuch,  staggering  a  little  under  the  squire's 
weight,  followed  him  and  disappeared  from  view.  Suelva 
ran  forward  a  few  steps  as  if  to  call  them  back;  then  she 
stopped  short,  hand  at  breast. 

"'Tis  too  late,"  said  the  jester  bitterly,  and  shut  down 
the  trap-door. 

" God  pity  me,"  she  sobbed.  "I  was  too  selfish  of  his  life 
—  and  of  his  love." 

"And  now,  be  sure,  he  will  do  naught  but  hate  thee!" 

As  if  to  spite  her  overwrought  emotions,  she  turned 
on  him  sharply.  "Thou  art  impertinent,  fool." 

He  smiled  sadly.  "  Unpleasant  truths  must  ever  seem  im- 
pertinent —  but  they  are  no  less  true.  An'  I  be  the  court 
fool,  pray,  noble  lady,  what  art  thou?  We  be  all  king's  play- 
things —  my  wit  and  thy  beauty  and  the  mute's  deformities. 
For  all  of  us  sweet  life  is  slowly  spoiled  —  for  the  mute  and 
me  by  scorn  and  snickerings;  for  thee  by  the  cold  glitter  of 
lavished  finery  and  callous  flattery.  That  squire,  young 
and  beautiful  and  bursting  with  ambition,  was  only  a  play- 
thing, too  —  thy  toy,  to  dally  with  and  break." 


i94  A  WILLIAMS   ANTHOLOGY 

"Nay,  nay!  I  loved  him  dearly  and  so  shall  for  all  time." 

The  jester  laughed  shortly.  "I  had  not  meant  for  thee  to 
glance  upon  this  scene,"  he  said,  "but  if  't  were  best,  then 
look,  lady,  look!"  and  he  threw  open  the  trap.  A  great  red 
light  flared  up  into  the  donjon,  and  waved  and  danced  along 
the  moon-green  walls.  The  empty  bier  seemed  licked  in 
ruddy  flames,  and  on  the  moist  mould  of  the  ceiling,  each 
little  drop  of  water  sparkled  like  a  ruby. 

"Look  at  him,"  repeated  the  jester.  "Shrink  not;  they 
are  only  heating  the  irons." 

She  crept  to  the  edge  of  the  trap,  and  peered  down,  fasci- 
nated. "Who  are  those  huge  hairy  men,  with  wild  beasts' 
faces?  "  she  asked. 

"The  torturers." 

"Oh!  what  have  they  done  to  his  hair  —  to  all  his  long, 
pretty  locks?  How  strange  he  looks  with  his  head  shaven 
thus!  And  see!  what  is  the  torturer  to  do  with  that  glowing 
iron  in  his  hand?  Ugh! "  and  she  fell  back,  near  swooning. 

There  was  a  sudden  sizzle  of  burnt  flesh  and  stenching 
smoke. 

"Look,"  commanded  the  jester.   "Look  again." 

"I  dare  not  —  nay,  I  cannot,"  and  she  flung  herself  away 
from  the  trap,  and  lay  at  full  length  on  the  floor,  with  the 
moon  and  the  furnace  light  reflecting  a  mad  swirl  of  color 
over  her  upturned,  staring  face.  For  some  moments  she  lay 
there,  and  above  her  stood  the  jester.  Neither  spoke  nor 
moved;  they  could  only  listen  and  listen  to  the  noises  below 
them:  the  soft  purring  of  the  furnace-fire;  the  scuffle  of  the 
workers'  feet;  the  deadened  clank  of  instruments;  the  faint 
groans  of  the  insensible  youth ;  the  binding,  searing,  ripping 
of  flesh;  the  crack  and  crunch  of  bones. 

"Quick,"  cried  the  jester,  "before  they  bandage  him; 
quick!  look  again,"  and  when  she  shrank  further  back,  he 
pushed  her  forward  to  the  very  edge  of  the  trap,  until  she 


GILBERT  W.   GABRIEL  195 

could  not  help  but  see.  "And  couldst  thou  love  him  now?" 
he  asked,  and  keenly  searched  her  face. 

She  said  no  word,  but  slightly  swayed  from  side  to  side. 
She  threw  her  hands  before  her  eyes,  and  dug  her  fists  deep 
into  them,  as  if  to  blot  the  sight  from  her  memory.  She 
crouched,  stunned  and  sickened.  Her  hands  dropped  back 
to  her  breast,  and  the  jester  saw  the  expression  of  her  fea- 
tures. 

There  was  no  sign  of  love  in  her  face;  there  was  no  tender- 
ness or  pity.  Only  black  horror  and  disgust;  only  a  sullen, 
disappointed  rage,  and  a  scowling  disgust. 

"They  have  made  him  as  ugly  as  the  king's  gorillas,"  she 
sobbed.  "Ugh!  he  is  ugly!" 

The  jester  nodded  his  head  mockingly.  "Thou  art  right. 
They  have  made  him  too  foul  for  thee  ever  to  love,  have 
they  not?" 

"Love?  God!  I  could  not  love  a  beast  like  that." 

"Nor  couldst  thou  even  pity  him  —  is  he  not  too  foul 
even  for  pity?  " 

"Nay,  I'd  never  dare  to  pity  such  a  thing.  He  is  too  hor- 
rible, too  loathsome.  I  would  swoon  if  he  touched  me." 

"What,  lady,  neither  love  nor  pity?  Yet  this  may  merely 
be  a  passing  sickness  of  the  humours.  To-morrow  thou 
mayest  love  him  better  than  before." 

"Love?"  She  was  fast  growing  hysterical.  "I  could 
never  bear  the  sight  of  such  a  mangled  dwarf."  Thrusting 
her  hand  inside  her  dress,  she  drew  out  a  gleaming  bodkin, 
and  flung  it  at  the  fool's  feet.  "Kill  him,"  she  screamed, 
"kill  him! "  Then  she  rose  unsteadily  and  staggered  out  the 
iron  door. 

"Kill  him!"  the  jester  echoed.  "Merciful  Mary,  I  thank 
thee!"  and,  concealing  the  bodkin  in  his  blouse,  he  de- 
scended the  ladder,  to  help  the  captain  and  the  torturers  in 
their  work. 


196  A  WILLIAMS  ANTHOLOGY 

An  hour  later,  the  squire's  corpse  was  thrown  over  the 
castle  walls.  "'Tis  a  shame,"  growled  the  captain;  "he 
would  have  made  so  fine  a  mute.  One  of  the  torturers' 
knives  must  ha'  slipped,  whilst  they  were  cutting  out  his 
tongue.  For  I  noticed  that  the  spinal  cord  was  severed  at 
the  base  of  the  mouth  —  and  that  is  a  sure  death,  you  know." 

"So?  I  had  not  known  that,"  said  the  jester  softly,  and 
he  smiled  to  himself. 

The  old  dead  mute  was  placed  back  on  his  bier  and  the 
trap-door  shut  down.  "So  now  I  must  hunt  for  another 
page  or  squire,"  growled  the  captain,  and  he  clanked  wrath- 
fully  out  of  the  donjon. 

The  jester  stayed  a  little  while,  to  pray  for  the  mute's 
soul  and  for  the  squire's  soul  and  for  his  own.  Then  he  too 
rose  and,  swinging  the  iron  door  behind  him,  left  the  corpse 
alone.  The  moonlight  shone  dimly  and  more  dimly  through 
the  grating,  and  soon  had  disappeared.  It  left  the  donjon 
keep  in  total  darkness,  and  in  a  stillness  broken  only  by  the 
dripping  of  water  from  the  mouldy  ceiling. 

Literary  Monthly,  1910. 


NINE  WILLIAMS  ALUMNI  l 
I.  JOHN  BASCOM 

JOHN  ADAMS  LOWE '06 

ALREADY  long  past  the  threescore  years  and  ten  allotted 
man,  Dr.  Bascom  exerted  a  vital  influence  on  the  college 
when  we  first  met  him.  On  the  shadowy  side  of  the  valley, 
and  even  then  silvery  haired,  he  moved  beneath  these  classic 
shades  like  a  patriarch,  "the  grand  old  doctor." 

The  facts  of  his  life  and  of  his  achievements  require  vol- 
umes for  the  telling.  They  speak  of  his  genius-like  career  at 
Williams,  of  his  keen  philosophical  insight,  and  of  how,  after 
being  graduated  in  1849, ne  toied-  the  law  and  theology  before 
accepting  a  tutorship  in  his  alma  mater.  A  score  of  years 
from  1855  to  1874,  he  served  the  college  as  professor  of  rhe- 
toric, although  his  desire  was  to  give  his  attention  to  philo- 
sophy. The  times  were  filled  with  conflict  and  struggle,  and 
Dr.  Bascom  accepted  the  presidency  of  the  University  of 
Wisconsin,  where  he  made  a  glorious  record  covering  four- 
teen years.  In  1887  he  returned  to  Williamstown  with  un- 
impaired powers,  and  became  lecturer  in  sociology  and  later 
professor  of  political  economy,  a  position  which  he  filled  till 
1903.  They  speak  of  his  degrees  of  honor:  Wisconsin, 
Amherst,  and  Williams  conferred  the  LL.D.,  Iowa  College 
the  D.D. 

It  is  in  the  evening  of  his  life  that  it  has  been  our  good  for- 
tune to  know  him.  As  when,  the  day's  work  done  and  the 
worries  of  its  earlier  hours  laid  aside,  we  look  forward  to  the 
rest  that  awaits  us  and  live  over  in  thought  the  events  of  the 

1  A  series  which  ran  through  Vol.  XXV.  of  the  Lit.,  1900-1910. 

197 


198  A  WILLIAMS  ANTHOLOGY 

day  that  is  gone,  the  conflicts  lose  their  bitterness.  Here  is  a 
man  whose  limitless  energy  built  up  a  great  university; 
whose  straightforward  counsel  for  many  years  shaped  the 
policies  of  one  of  the  political  parties  of  the  Commonwealth; 
whose  earnest  teaching  pointed  out  to  many  a  man  his  civic 
duty;  and  whose  personal  life  is  an  incentive  to  high  intel- 
lectual morality.  By  a  score  of  books  covering  the  various 
fields  of  rhetoric,  aesthetics,  political  economy,  philosophy, 
and  religion,  he  has  moulded  public  opinion  in  his  generation. 
The  same  undaunted  ambition  keeps  his  eye  bright  now  as 
then;  the  same  keen  brain  grapples  with  vital  problems;  the 
same  magnetic  personality  commands  respect  and  love. 


II.   HENRY  MILLS  ALDEN 

LEVERETT  W.  SPRING  '62 

HENRY  M.  ALDEN  has  been  the  ecjitor  of  Harper's 
Monthly  since  1869,  and  is  still  in  active  service.  He 
was  transferred  to  this  position  from  Harper's  Weekly,  of 
which  he  was  the  editor  for  the  five  years  preceding.  For 
this  long  and  distinguished  service  he  seems  to  have  had 
little  or  no  preliminary  training.  The  first  six  years  of  his 
life  —  he  was  born  in  1836  —  were  spent  in  Mount  Tabor,  a 
Vermont  hamlet  with  the  rude  life  of  a  remote  country  town 
three  quarters  of  a  century  ago.  From  Mount  Tabor  he 
removed  in  1842  to  Hoosick  Falls,  New  York.  Here,  after 
some  service  as  an  operative  in  a  cotton  mill  and  other  tenta- 
tive vocations,  he  prepared  for  college,  and,  in  the  autumn  of 
1853,  entered  Williams,  where  he  supported  himself  by 
teaching  during  the  long  winter  vacations  and  by  such  mis- 
cellaneous work  as  fell  in  his  way.  "I  remember  among 


LEVERETT  W.  SPRING  199 

other  things,"  said  the  late  President  Henry  Hopkins  to  the 
writer,  "that  he  took  care  of  my  father's  horse." 

In  Mr.  Alden's  day  the  opportunities  at  Williams  in  the 
way  of  preparation  for  an  editorial  career  were  very  slender. 
The  only  student  publication  was  a  quarterly  magazine  of 
less  than  a  hundred  pages,  and  by  some  oversight  his  class- 
mates failed  to  elect  him  as  one  of  the  five  editors.  At  An- 
dover  Theological  Seminary,  where  he  was  a  student  from 
1857  to  1860,  the  opportunities  for  'prentice  work  as  an 
editor  were  wholly  wanting.  Hence  the  preparation  which 
the  college  and  seminary  afforded  for  his  life-work  was  of  a 
very  general  and  indirect  sort.  Yet  his  success  has  been  one 
of  the  notable  landmarks  in  the  history  of  modern  periodi- 
cals. In  the  conduct  of  Harper's  Monthly  with  its  wide 
range  of  attractive  material,  he  has  done  the  world  a  service, 
high  and  fine.  For  the  first  thirty  years  of  this  service  Mr. 
Alden  seems  to  have  devoted  himself  to  the  task  of  securing 
and  organizing  the  material  to  be  printed.  In  1900  he  added 
to  the  departments  of  the  magazine  an  "Editor's  Study," 
and  begged  "an  audience  speaking  in  his  own  name."  Here 
he  discusses  from  month  to  month  such  topics  as  the  shift- 
ings  of  popular  taste,  the  story  with  a  purpose,  the  volunteer 
contributor,  rejected  manuscripts,  the  "  dullards  of  the  col- 
lege world  for  whom  a  Jowett  or  a  Mark  Hopkins  is  super- 
fluous," and  the  present  outlook  of  literature. 

That  such  a  career  was  possible  for  Mr.  Alden  —  the 
career  of  an  indefatigable  editor,  keenly  alive  to  the  various 
needs  of  the  reading  public,  with  an  office  in  a  great  New 
York  business  establishment,  bethumped  without  by  the 
roar  of  elevated  trains  and  confused  within  by  the  noise  of 
incessant  printing  presses  —  no  one  who  knew  him  in  Wil- 
liamstown  from  1853  to  1857  had  the  slightest  conception. 
Then  and  there  he  was  a  dreamer,  and  showed  relatively 
little  interest  in  this  present  material,  workaday  world.  Dr. 


200  A  WILLIAMS  ANTHOLOGY 

Gladden  says  in  his  Recollections  that  he  could  never  find 
out  how  he  got  down  from  cloudland  to  Franklin  Square. 
But  as  a  matter  of  fact,  in  whatever  hostile  regions  he  may 
have  sojourned,  he  never  quite  lost  his  residence  in  the 
supersensual  world.  Somehow  he  succeeded  in  reaching 
Franklin  Square  and  becoming  an  editor  without  ceasing  to 
be  a  mystic. 

The  literary  history  of  Mr.  Alden  the  mystic,  as  distin- 
guished from  the  editor,  seems  to  have  begun  with  the  ap- 
pearance of  an  essay  on  "The  Philosophy  of  Art"  in  the 
Williams  Quarterly  for  December,  1856.  Then,  three  or 
four  years  later,  came  "The  Eleusinia,"  two  articles  printed 
in  the  Atlantic  Monthly.  These  papers  led  to  the  deliv- 
ery in  1864  of  a  course  of  lectures  before  the  Lowell  Institute 
on  "The  Structure  of  Paganism."  Some  thirty  years  after- 
ward two  books  appeared  —  God  in  His  World  in  1893 
and  The  Study  of  Death  in  1895  —  which  may  be  re- 
garded as  the  culmination  of  the  mental  and  spiritual  char- 
acteristics revealed  in  the  Williams  Quarterly  essay  and 
in  the  Atlantic  papers.  Both  of  these  books  abound  in 
rhythmic,  melodious  pages  of  prose  poetry  like  the  rhapsody 
on  "The  Coming  of  the  Bridegroom"  or  on  "The  Lesson  of 
the  Sea."  Mr.  Alden's  prose  is  perhaps  more  poetic  than  his 
verse.  Of  the  latter,  scanty  in  amount,  the  best  is  his  "An- 
cient Lady  of  Sorrows,"  before  whom  pass 

"  All  shapes  that  come,  or  soon  or  late, 
Of  this  world's  misery." 

In  general,  the  books  may  be  described  as  an  interpretation 
of  the  great  problems  of  life  by  the  mystic  intuitions  as  dis- 
tinguished from  abstract  intellectualism,  which  finds  that 
many  of  these  problems  are  hopelessly  beyond  its  reach.  If 
one  cares  for  the  philosophy  of  nature  and  history,  of  Chris- 
tianity and  other  religions,  brilliantly  expounded  by  an 


STEPHEN  T.  LIVINGSTON  201 

idealizing,  poetic  optimist  and  seer,  we  commend  him  to 
"God  in  His  World"  and  "The  Study  of  Death." 


III.  WASHINGTON  GLADDEN 

STEPHEN  T.  LIVINGSTON  '87 

WASHINGTON  GLADDEN,  whose  very  name  irradiates  the 
nobility  and  wholesomeness  of  the  man  himself,  has  for 
years  been  a  foremost  interpreter  of  the  perplexing  problems 
of  our  time.  His  appeal  is  to  honest  intelligence  in  whatever 
concerns  human  welfare.  He  has  done  much  to  humanize 
theology  and  stimulate  popular  interest  in  modern  scholar- 
ship. Moreover,  in  the  region  of  industrial,  social,  and  civic 
reform  he  stands  out  conspicuously  as  a  bold  champion  of 
the  Golden  Rule  in  its  application  to  every-day  activities; 
and  though  sometimes  charged  with  being  a  dreamer,  he 
shows  that  the  sky  (to  use  his  own  figure)  is  less  remote  than 
is  commonly  supposed,  and  in  fact  adjoins  the  surface  of  the 
earth  where  human  feet  daily  walk. 

Dr.  Gladden,  who  is  now  a  little  more  than  seventy,  was 
born  in  Pennsylvania.  He  prepared  for  college  in  Owego, 
New  York,  and  was  graduated  from  Williams  in  1859.  After 
preaching  in  New  York  state  for  a  few  years,  he  came  to 
Massachusetts,  where  he  was  settled  first  in  North  Adams, 
and  then  in  Springfield.  Since  1882  he  has  been  minister  of 
the  First  Congregational  Church  in  Columbus,  Ohio.  As 
preacher,  author,  and  lecturer  he  is  famous  throughout  the 
English-speaking  world,  and  all  his  recent  books  (the  latest 
being  his  Recollections)  are  published  simultaneously  in 
England  and  the  United  States.  The  honorary  degrees  con- 
ferred on  him  are  D.D.  and  LL.D. 

The  instructive  and  practical  elements  in  Dr.  Gladden's 


202  A  WILLIAMS  ANTHOLOGY 

writings,  the  wide  influence  he  exerts  in  the  cause  of  aggres- 
sive righteousness,  and  his  interesting  personality,  do  not, 
however,  measure  the  full  extent  of  his  gifts.  One  has  only 
to  read  his  well-known  hymns  to  realize  anew  that  here  is 
lyric  quality  of  the  first  order.  Then,  too,  the  Williams 
alumnus,  whether  he  sings  hymns  or  not,  has  the  warmest 
place  in  his  heart  for  "The  Mountains,"  and  when  he  comes 
back  to  the  college  with  white  hair  will  continue  to  thank 
Washington  Gladden  for  that  song.  While  serving  as  one  of 
the  trustees  of  Williams,  Dr.  Gladden  was  a  familiar  figure 
at  commencement.  His  personal  presence  indicates  the 
character  of  his  thought,  and  the  spirit  which  challenged  him 
to  high  daring  in  the  early  days  is  still  unflinching.  During 
the  present  disintegration  of  old  beliefs,  this  servant  of  the 
truth  has  always  been  eager  to  reconstruct  the  new  with  the 
clear  and  definite  purpose  of  meeting  the  highest  require- 
ments of  life. 


IV.   FRANKLIN   CARTER 

HENRY  D.  WILD  '88 

IT  was  largely  owing  to  her  location  that  Williams  College 
gained  the  son  who  was  to  become  her  sixth  president.  Born 
at  Waterbury,  Connecticut,  and  thus  well  within  the  centri- 
petal sweep  of  Yale,  Franklin  Carter  left  New  Haven  at  the 
close  of  his  sophomore  year  for  reasons  of  health,  and  later 
sought  the  more  favorable  climate  of  the  Berkshire  Hills. 
Thus,  once  a  member  of  the  class  of  1859  at  Yale,  he  was 
graduated  from  Williams  in  the  class  of  1862.  There  came  a 
blending  of  these  affiliations  throughout  his  career.  Wil- 
liams was  the  first  to  claim  him,  as  professor  of  French  and 
Latin  till  1868  and  then  as  Massachusetts  Professor  of 


HENRY  D.  WILD  203 

Latin  until  1872,  when  Yale  drew  him  to  a  professorship  of 
German,  to  relinquish  him  in  1881  when  he  succeeded  Dr. 
Chadbourne  as  president  of  Williams.  For  twenty  years,  the 
third  longest  administration  in  the  history  of  the  college,  he 
stood  at  the  head  of  her  interests. 

The  history  of  education  can  show  fewer  periods  more 
critical  or  more  rapid  in  change  than  the  last  quarter  of  the 
nineteenth  century  in  this  country.  Williams  was  in  her 
own  crisis  when  Dr.  Carter  came  as  president.  How  he  met 
it,  and  how  he  guided  the  college  in  a  steady  movement 
toward  larger  things,  a  mere  comparison  of  the  catalogues 
marking  the  limits  of  his  administration  can  tell  the  younger 
men  of  to-day,  who  enjoy  the  fruits  without  knowing  the 
process.  Such  a  comparison  would  show  an  increase  of  sixty 
per  cent,  in  the  number  of  students  and  over  one  hun- 
dred per  cent,  in  the  number  of  instructors.  This  period 
also  saw  an  increase  in  real  estate,  buildings,  and  im- 
provements of  $600,000,  and,  in  addition  to  this,  of  $900,- 
ooo  in  invested  funds. 

But  educational  realities  go  deeper  than  outward  pros- 
perity. A  college  reflects  her  president's  personality  in 
things  of  mind  and  of  spirit.  To  business  capacity  Dr.  Car- 
ter added  distinguished  scholarship  and  the  genius  of  a 
teacher  born.  All  this  was  made  livingly  effective  by  single- 
hearted  loyalty  to  the  best  interests  of  the  college  as  he  saw 
them  and  by  devotion  to  the  highest  moral  and  intellectual 
good  of  the  students.  He  did  not  swerve  from  duty  as  he 
understood  it  to  follow  an  easy  popularity.  The  burdens 
that  he  bore  and  the  labors  that  he  accomplished,  at  per- 
sonal cost  in  more  ways  than  one,  rested  in  the  last  analysis 
on  this  substratum  of  self-denying  service. 

His  work  has  extended  far  beyond  the  college.  His  grace 
of  expression  in  both  speech  and  print,  the  keenness  of  his 
wit,  his  administrative  power,  and  his  command  of  educa- 


204  A  WILLIAMS  ANTHOLOGY 

tional  resources  have  been  recognized  and  made  available 
beyond  the  limits  of  his  presidency  and  apart  from  the  de- 
mands of  Williams  alone.  Honored  in  many  spheres,  he  has 
thus  brought  added  honor  to  the  college.  The  solidarity  of 
his  achievements  for  Williams  is  revealed  more  clearly  as 
time  proceeds.  More  and  more  the  alumni  are  coming  to 
appreciate  this  as  both  historical  fact  and  academic  heritage. 
This  shall  be  his  reward  as  he  continues,  and  may  it  be  for 
long,  to  live  close  to  the  college  and  to  the  town  that  he  has 
served  and  loved. 


V.  HAMILTON  WRIGHT  MABIE 

WILLIAM  M.  GROSVENOR  '85 

IT  would  be  easy  enough  for  me  to  study  critically  Mr. 
Mabie's  books,  for  he  has  written  many  and  they  are  well 
known  and  widely  read;  I  might  give  you  a  criticism  of  him 
as  thinker  and  author.  If  criticism  is,  .(as  I  believe  Matthew 
Arnold  once  defined  it)  the  discerning  of  the  characteristic 
excellencies  in  things,  I  could  easily  show  you  the  charm  of 
Mr.  Mabie's  English,  the  wide  range  of  his  culture,  the 
sweetness  and  light  of  his  interpretations  of  nature  and 
human  life.  But  this  is  rather  a  brief  tribute  to  the  man 
himself  whom  we  sons  of  Williams  have  known  and  ad- 
mired these  many  years,  and  this  or  any  like  tribute,  how- 
ever inadequate,  will  serve  to  pay  a  little  of  the  debt  we  owe 
him  for  all  that  he  is  and  all  that  he  has  done. 

Born  in  1846,  he  graduated  from  college  in  1867  and  from 
the  Columbia  Law  School  in  1869.  As  I  graduated  eighteen 
years  later,  I  never  knew  him  in  those  earlier  days.  But  the 
law  did  not  claim  him;  almost  at  once  he  turned  to  litera- 
ture, for  that  clearly  was  his  God-given  aptitude.  For 


JULIAN  PARK  205 

nearly  thirty  years  he  has  been  an  editor  of  the  Christian 
Union,  which  afterward  became  the  Outlook. 

.  .  .  The  boy  is  father  to  the  man.  The  gentleness,  the 
refinement,  the  generous  outlook  on  life,  the  genial  friend- 
liness, have  only  grown  into  nobler  forms  through  the  stren- 
uous years.  But  he  is  an  editor  as  well  as  a  litterateur.  He 
has  had  his  share  in  the  fight  to  preserve  our  national  ideals. 
The  years  have  put  iron  into  his  soul  and  strength  into  his 
judgments,  and  the  sweetness  has  become  only  the  pleasing 
incasement  of  the  strong  medicine  which  our  social  and  po- 
litical life  so  often  needs.  So  his  personal  influence  has 
grown  in  weight  and  effectiveness.  Mr.  Mabie  is  serving  the 
state,  the  church,  human  society,  in  all  the  wide  range  of 
its  interests,  with  singular  efficiency  and  is  quietly  achieving 
many  very  useful  things;  and  withal  it  is  done  with  methods 
that  are  constructive  and  with  the  gentle  arts  of  a  gracious 
persuasiveness  and  a  winning  courtesy. 

May  he  have  many  years  of  rich  and  fruitful  work,  and  a 
golden  harvest  of  all  the  good  deeds  he  has  sown! 


VI.  HENRY  LOOMIS  NELSON 

JULIAN  PARK  '10 

To  some  of  the  college  body  the  name  of  Henry  Loomis 
Nelson  is  nothing  more  than  a  name,  but  the  three  upper 
classes,  especially  that  considerable  portion  of  them  who  at 
one  time  or  another  came  under  his  influence,  will  not  soon 
allow  the  memory  of  his  personality  to  pass.  The  facts  of 
his  life  are  simple  enough  and  as  well  known;  the  fruits  of 
that  life  would  take  many  pages  to  set  forth.  His  power  as 
educator,  journalist,  and  man  of  public  affairs  reached  in- 


206  A  WILLIAMS  ANTHOLOGY 

finitely  further  than  most  of  us,  who  first  saw  in  him  the 
man  of  even,  witty  temperament,  were  used  to  realize. 

Professor  Nelson  was  graduated  with  the  class  of  1867, 
later  taking  the  M.  A.  degree;  the  college  further  honored 
him  and  itself  by  conferring  the  degree  of  L.  H.  D.  in  1902. 
Together  with  Mabie  and  Stetson  of  his  class,  he  organized 
a  little  circle  for  literary  discussion;  and  that  group,  each 
afterward  to  attain  eminence,  showed  more  vital  interest  in 
art  and  letters  than  can  be  found  to-day.  After  taking  his 
law  degree  at  Columbia  he  went  to  Washington  as  news- 
paper correspondent  and  there  began  a  great  series  of  politi- 
cal and  economic  writings.  Called  to  the  editorial  chair  of 
Harper's  Weekly  in  1895,  he  resigned  it  after  four  years  be- 
cause, he  said,  he  felt  that  he  would  be  false  to  his  own  con- 
victions if  he  wrote  those  of  the  publisher,  false  to  the 
publisher  if  he  used  the  magazine  to  voice  his  own.  His  writ- 
ings include  also  a  novel  as  well  as  treatises  on  political  sci- 
ence. In  1902  he  came  back  to  his  alma  mater  as  head  of 
the  department  of  Government.  He  died  on  February  29, 
1908. 

In  his  devotion  to  the  ideals  of  Williams  as  he  saw  them, 
Dr.  Nelson  was,  many  have  said,  more  distinguished  by 
manly  but  quiet  zeal  than  any  other  graduate  of  his  prom- 
inence in  public  life.  He  stood  for  scholarship,  fine  scholar- 
ship of  course,  but  even  above  that  he  put  honor,  a  gentle- 
man's code  of  honor.  He  was  unconditional  in  his  contempt 
for  hedging,  for  trickery,  for  meanness.  Constantly  he 
showed  himself  an  idealist,  as  in  his  advocacy  of  an  absolute 
honor  system.  But  in  all  there  was  the  play  of  a  shrewd  wit, 
the  touch  of  sureness,  lacking  snobbery,  of  the  man  who 
knows  where  he  stands,  and  a  love  of  entertaining  others. 
For  only  six  years  we  knew  him  as  a  teacher,  but  the  time 
was  long  enough  for  many  of  his  ideals  and  ideas  to  take 
root,  and  the  fruit  of  them  will  long  be  apparent. 


VII.   HARRY  PRATT  JUDSON 

GEORGE  EDWIN  MACLEAN  '71 

HARRY  JUDSON  entered  Williams  from  Stillwater,  New 
York,  and  it  was  said  that  he  made  the  best  entrance  ex- 
aminations ever  passed  up  to  that  time.  Immediately  upon 
his  graduation,  the  third  in  his  class,  in  1870,  he  taught  pub- 
lic school  in  Troy,  and  was  initiated  as  a  reformer  in  munici- 
pal politics  when  Troy  was  infamous  for  corruption. 

The  second  public  era  of  his  life,  1885  to  1892,  witnessed 
his  introduction  to  the  West  as  professor  of  history  in  the 
University  of  Minnesota.  This  was  the  time  of  the  refound- 
ing  of  that  institution  under  the  beginning  of  President 
Northrop's  administration,  to  whom  Professor  Judson  be- 
came a  right  hand.  His  career  is  an  illustrious  example  of 
one  rising  slowly  and  patiently  through  every  grade  of  the 
public  school  system,  to  its  crown  in  the  highest  grades  in  the 
state  university.  It  must  have  been  of  inestimable  worth 
to  him  to  become  familiar  with  the  genius  of  a  state  univer- 
sity, so  peculiarly  a  people's  institution  and  so  character- 
istic of  the  middle  West. 

Unconsciously  he  was  preparing  for  crowning  his  career  in 
the  new  University  of  Chicago.  It  is  not  strange  that,  in 
1889,  three  years  before  he  became  a  member  of  the  univer- 
sity's first  faculty,  President  Harper's  attention  was  attracted 
to  him,  and  he  brought  the  early  drafts  of  his  plan  for  a  her- 
culean university  to  Professor  Judson  for  criticism.  When 
the  inner  history  of  that  university  is  written,  in  my  opinion, 
the  world  will  be  surprised  to  learn  of  the  contribution  of 
Professor  Judson,  who  was  Dr.  Harper's  Secretary  of  the 
Interior  from  the  beginning.  What  Mr.  Rockefeller  was  as 
a  silent  partner  in  money  matters,  Dr.  Judson  was  in  mat- 
ters of  the  mind. 

207 


208  A  WILLIAMS  ANTHOLOGY 

As  dean  of  the  Faculty  of  Arts,  Literature,  and  Science 
from  1892  till  his  accession  to  the  presidency,  he  was  in  ad- 
mirable training  for  that  office.  His  facility  in  using  his 
knowledge,  his  versatility  of  powers,  fired  by  an  innate 
energy,  regulated  by  steadiness  of  purpose,  and  aimed  at 
the  highest  ideals,  make  his  name  synonymous  with  effi- 
ciency incarnate.  His  modesty  equals  his  ability.  Harper 
stands  as  an  heroic  figure,  a  Napoleon  with  visions  of  edu- 
cational conquest,  selected  by  the  far-seeing  Rockefeller  to 
build  a  university  in  the  center  of  the  nation  and  to  give 
the  West  intellectual  self-respect.  With  the  same  keenness  of 
vision  Mr.  Rockefeller  and  the  trustees  selected  as  Dr. 
Harper's  successor  a  human  figure,  one  in  almost  every  way 
a  contrast  to  Dr.  Harper;  an  Elisha  succeeding  an  Elijah 
and  fitted  to  balance  and  round  out  the  creative  stage  in  a 
university  to  be  not  only  the  biggest  but  the  best  in  the 
West.  Williams  as  the  mother  of  many  educators  must 
place  the  name  of  Judson  beside  that  of  Mark  Hopkins. 


VIII.   CHARLES  CUTHBERT  HALL 

SOLOMON  BULKLEY  GRIFFIN  '72 

DR.  HALL  was  born  in  1852,  and  died  within  a  short  time  of 
two  of  his  best  and  best-known  college  friends,  H.  L.  Nelson 
and  Isaac  Henderson,  on  March  15,  1908.  On  being  gradu- 
ated from  Williams  in  1872  and  from  the  Union  Seminary, 
his  first  pastorates  were  spent  in  Newburgh,  N.  Y.,  and  in 
Brooklyn,  whence  he  was  called  to  the  presidency  of  Union 
Seminary  in  1897.  The  most  brilliant  of  his  achievements 
was  perhaps  embodied  in  his  two  trips  to  India  as  the  Bar- 
rows lecturer  of  the  University  of  Chicago;  —  he  had  a 
wonderful  aptitude  in  applying  the  principles  of  Christianity 


SOLOMON  BULKLEY  GRIFFIN  209 

to  an  alien  civilization.  A  class-mate,  the  editor  of  the 
Springfield  Republican  is  the  author  of  the  tribute  to  his 
memory  which  follows. 

It  is  around  the  thought  of  Cuthbert  Hall  the  college  boy, 
rather  than  the  distinguished  president  of  a  great  seminary 
and  all  the  rest,  with  the  world  so  much  his  parish,  that  any 
word  of  loving  memory  shapes  itself.  He  was  refined  and 
winning.  If  ever  the  sunlight  of  a  gracious  nature  touched 
any  youth,  it  rested  on  him;  the  unworthy  and  the  trivial 
passed  him  by.  His  adjustment  of  values  even  then  was 
mature  and  firm.  His  literary  taste  and  product  were 
superior.  He  was  a  natural  gentleman,  and  that  meant  a 
Christian  by  all  the  call  of  his  nature.  Love  of  the  fine,  the 
high,  the  genuine,  and  the  generous,  was  instinctive.  His 
breadth  of  charity  and  welcome  for  knowledge  in  youth 
became  the  distinction  of  his  manhood. 

Qualities  were  conspicuous  in  his  life  that  bound  world- 
lings to  him  in  a  bond  of  fellowship  that  grappled  the  best 
that  was  in  them.  Goodness  of  his  sort  is  commanding  — 
the  practical  power  of  a  pure  life  is  a  pulpit  asset  that  ree'n- 
forces  the  spoken  word  beyond  all  human  calculation. 
Under  his  leadership  Union  Seminary  could  not  have  been 
other  than  liberal  and  sympathetic  toward  devout  scholar- 
ship that  might  seem  to  threaten  the  ancient  foundations  of 
faith. 

When  a  class-mate  late  in  life  found  repose  in  the  Roman 
church,  Dr.  Hall  could  see  and  say  that  such  anchorage  was 
best  for  his  friend.  All  paths  that  led  to  trust  in  God  and 
the  strengthening  of  the  essentials  of  character  were  allow- 
able in  the  brotherhood  of  the  service  of  humanity. 

The  world  of  scholarship  has  its  arrogancies  —  some- 
times it  is  critical  over-much,  intolerant  toward  the  lesser 
requirements  of  busy  men  outside.  This  man  never  lost 


210  A  WILLIAMS  ANTHOLOGY 

touch  with  men  as  they  passed.  His  own  assurance  of  be- 
lief was  a  flame  which  lighted  many  torches.  It  was  a  sane 
and  a  glad  evangel  that  he  gave  to  his  students,  and  brought 
in  almost  constant  and  always  ardent  addresses  to  the  youth 
of  many  colleges. 

Intellectual  integrity  was  joined  in  him  with  the  finest 
spiritual  apprehension  and  expression,  so  that  he  was  quali- 
fied to  carry  a  message  to  the  cultivated  of  India,  where  he 
got  his  mortal  hurt.  In  the  knightly  loyalty  with  which  he 
labored  his  zeal  was  a  highly  tempered  blade.  He  respected 
all  faiths,  but  an  abiding  assurance  of  the  supremacy  of  the 
service  of  Christ  gave  him  unwavering  serenity  and  poise. 
It  is  easy  to  think  of  Charles  Cuthbert  Hall  entering  the 
Supreme  Presence  reverently,  unafraid,  rejoicing,  as  natu- 
rally as  a  child  would  come  home. 


IX.   BLISS   PERRY 

CARROLL  LEWIS  MAXCY  '87 

THE  subject  of  this  brief  sketch  may  indeed  be  termed  a 
Williams  man  both  by  heredity  and  by  environment.  He 
passed  his  boyhood  and  early  youth  under  the  very  shadow 
of  our  hills;  and  his  father,  Professor  A.  L.  Perry,  was  for 
years  the  most  widely  known  as  well  as  the  most  generally 
loved  of  its  faculty. 

Bliss  Perry  was  born  in  1860;  after  graduation,  in  1 88 1,  he 
became  instructor  in  English  and  elocution  at  his  alma  mater 
and  in  1886  was  advanced  to  the  full  professorship.  In  1893 
he  accepted  a  call  to  the  same  chair  at  Princeton.  Six  years 
later  he  was  appointed  to  the  editorship  of  the  Atlantic 
Monthly,  thus  becoming  one  of  a  famous  line  of  editors 
including  Lowell,  Howells,  and  Aldrich.  He  remained  at  the 


CARROLL  LEWIS  MAXCY  211 

head  of  the  Atlantic  for  just  ten  years,  resigning  in 
August  1909  to  devote  himself  wholly  to  the  duties  of  the 
chair  of  English  literature  at  Harvard,  which  he  had  accepted 
two  years  before  and  which  had  already  been  filled  by  Long- 
fellow and  Lowell.  The  year  1909-1910  he  spent  abroad  as 
Hyde  lecturer  at  the  Sorbonne. 

Professor  Perry's  publications  extend  over  the  fields  of 
fiction,  criticism,  and  the  occasional  essay.  His  Study  of 
Prose  Fiction,  a  clear  exposition  of  narrative  writing,  is  one 
of  the  best-known  college  textbooks  on  the  subject.  His 
Walt  Whitman  is  without  doubt  his  most  careful  and 
elaborate  critical  work  and  is  a  recognized  authority.  The 
Amateur  Spirit,  a  series  of  familiar  essays,  shows  Pro- 
fessor Perry  at  his  best  and  should  be  read  especially  by 
those  who  delight  to  study  the  personality  of  an  author  as 
revealed  in  his  work. 

But  whatever  fame  Professor  Perry  may  have  attained  in 
the  fields  of  literature,  to  Williams  men  he  is  the  teacher.  In 
The  Amateur  Spirit  he  has  written:  "Your  born  teacher 
is  as  rare  as  a  poet.  .  .  .  Once  in  a  while  a  college  gets  hold 
of  one.  It  does  not  always  know  that  it  has  him,  and  pro- 
ceeds to  ruin  him  by  over-driving,  the  moment  he  shows 
power;  or  to  let  another  college  lure  him  away  for  a  few  hun- 
dred dollars  more  a  year.  But  while  he  lasts  —  and  some- 
times, fortunately,  he  lasts  till  the  end  of  a  long  life  —  he 
transforms  the  lecture-hall  as  by  enchantment.  Lucky  is  the 
alumnus  who  can  call  the  roll  of  his  old  instructors,  and 
among  the  martinets  and  the  pedants  and  the  piously  inane 
can  here  and  there  come  suddenly  upon  a  man;  a  man  who 
taught  him  to  think,  or  helped  him  to  feel,  and  thrilled  him 
with  a  new  horizon." 

Those  of  us  who  have  been  under  Professor  Perry's  in- 
struction in  the  class-room  must  smile  to  note  how  —  all 
unconsciously  —  he  has  here  portrayed  what  we  know  him 


212  A  WILLIAMS  ANTHOLOGY 

to  be.  Scholarly  in  his  tastes,  clear  in  his  thinking,  simple 
and  direct  in  the  expression  of  his  thought,  and  always  hu- 
man in  his  personality,  he  "taught  us  to  think,  he  helped  us 
to  feel,  and  he  thrilled  us  with  a  new  horizon."  To  us  he 
seemed  the  ideal  teacher,  and  as  teacher  and  as  man  withal 
he  has  won  the  loyalty  of  Harvard,  Princeton,  and  Williams 
men  alike. 


SUGGESTIONS 

OVER  THE  HILLS 
G.  B.  D. 

"MISTER,"  my  companion  in  the  smoking-car  addressed  me 
rather  timidly,  "hev  you  ever  bin  to  Ebenezer?" 

I  looked  at  him  a  moment:  kindly  eyes,  tanned  face,  griz- 
zled beard;  clothing  of  that  indescribable,  faded  greenish 
brown  which  had  lost  all  resemblance  to  its  original  color. 

"Yes,"  I  answered,  "I've  been  there  a  number  of  times." 

A  moment's  pause;  then,  "Quite  a  sizeable  place,  so  folks 
say." 

I  assented,  wondering  what  was  to  come. 

"An'  to  think  I  've  never  seen  it  —  never  bin  to  Ebenezer 
in  all  my  life,  an'  I  live  right  back  here  a  piece,  not  ten  miles 
over  the  hills  from  Ebenezer.  But  if  this  here  train  stays  on 
the  track  till  we  git  there,"  he  added  with  some  pride,  "I'm 
goin'  to  see  it. 

"I'm  goin'  to  see  Ebenezer,  jest  to  think  of  it!  Well  sir, 
it  makes  me  all  het  up.  Many's  the  time  when  I  come  in 
fr'm  chores,  I'd  set  by  the  fire  an'  read  the  Ebenezer 
Weekly  Review  and  Advertiser;  an'  there  I'd  see, ' Ebenezer 
items:  Squire  Hodge's  store  painted;  the  Ebenezer  Dry 
Goods  Emporium  moved  into  new  and  more  commodorious 
quarters,'  et  cetery.  Then  I'd  say  to  Mandy,  'Mandy, 
some  day  we'll  go  to  Ebenezer.'  But  we  never  went.  Well,  I 
s'pose  it's  all  fer  the  best."  He  sighed  and  shook  his  head. 

"But  I'm  goin'  to  see  it  all  now."  He  brightened  up 
again.  "Yes,  sir,  poor  Mandy  's  fixed  so  she  can't  leave  the 
house  now,  kind  of  laid  up  with  rheumatiz.  A  spell  back, 
though,  when  our  daughter  got  married,  an'  time  kind  o* 
hung  heavy  on  our  hands,  Mandy  says,  'Why  don't  you  go 

213 


2i4  A  WILLIAMS  ANTHOLOGY 

alone,  pa?  Now  's  a  good  chance.  So  I  fixed  things  up  spick 
an'  span,  anV  Nancy  —  that's  our  girl  —  come  over  this 
mornin'  to  stay  with  her  ma,  an'  I  —  well,  it'll  be  grand! 
D '  you  s'pose  I  c'n  see  it  all  in  one  day?  " 

"Oh,  yes." 

"  Well,"  he  sighed  contentedly,  "  that 's  good.  Say,  you  Ve 
bin  awful  good  to  me,  tellin'  me  all  about  Ebenezer.  I'm 
glad  I  met  some  one  who 's  had  experience  in  such  a  big 
town."  Silence  for  a  minute.  Then  he  leaned  over  confi- 
dentially. 

"D'  y'  know,  it  sort  o'  seems  's  though  the  sunshine  was 
a  leetle  bit  brighter  to-day  than  usual,  all  on  'count  of  my 
goin'  to  Ebenezer.  Only  I  wish  Mandy  c'd  be  along." 

"Ebenezer! "  yelled  the  brakeman.  "Ebenezer!" 

Literary  Monthly,  1906. 


A  NEW  LIFE  IN  READING 
J.O.  S.E. 

WHEN  we  were  at  home  the  gas  always  went  out  at  a  certain 
time,  and  if  we  were  tempted  to  finish  just  one  more  chap- 
ter of  Coral  Island  or  Out  on  the  Pampas,  we  needs  must 
steal  a  candle  from  the  pantry  stock  and  furtively  read 
by  its  flickering  light.  Our  own  sense  of  danger,  together 
with  the  imaginative  effect  wrought  upon  our  excitive  minds 
by  the  dancing  candlelight  and  the  awesome  shadows  of  the 
still  house,  gave  a  strange  relish  to  our  childhood  reading. 

At  boarding-school  we  found  (among  its  other  strange 
things)  the  electric  light.  At  nine-thirty  the  bell  in  the  chapel 
sounded  taps,  and  all  the  lights  in  the  school  were  extin- 
guished simultaneously.  Then  the  master  would  make  his 
rounds  and  find  the  whole  school  evidently  asleep  in  their 
beds.  But  presently  doors  would  open  and  books  would  be 
read  by  the  light  in  the  hall.  Still  we  had  that  same  adven- 
turous feeling  in  our  readings,  still  that  sweet  taste  of  stolen 
fruit. 

When  we  were  graduated  from  the  boarding-school,  put 
away  the  proverbial  childish  things,  and  came  to  college,  we 
were  given  a  freedom  such  as  we  had  never  had  before.  No 
interfering  master,  no  provoking  lack  of  light  to  annoy  us. 
We  could  burn  our  lamps  all  night,  and  receive  no  paternal 
rebuke  or  master's  chastisement.  And  now,  though  there  is 
none  of  that  sweetness  of  stolen  fruits,  none  of  that  creeping 
insecurity  of  former  readings,  there  is  an  undisturbing,  quiet 
secureness  that  makes  our  books  more  living  to  us.  Now, 
when  all  the  dormitory  is  asleep;  when  the  lighted  window- 
panes  have  ceased  to  cast  their  gleams  upon  the  snow;  when 
the  streets  are  deserted,  the  pool-rooms  closed,  and  the  last 
good-fellow  has  gone  to  bed,  and  only  oneself  is  awake,  then 

215 


216  A  WILLIAMS  ANTHOLOGY 

we  have  the  full  enjoyment  of  our  quiet  study  lamp-light. 
We  may  yawn  once  or  twice,  a  creak  on  the  stair  may 
startle  us,  —  but  we  do  not  go  to  bed.  We  reach  out  our 
hand  for  some  favorite  volume,  Stevenson's  Garden  of 
Verses,  Underwoods,  or  Emily  Bronte's  Wuthering  Heights  : 
and  read  far  on  into  the  night  towards  cock-crow. 
We  mingle  our  reading  with  dreams,  and  read  on  and  on, 
finding  a  new  feeling  in  our  book:  we  find  the  author's  deeper 
meaning.  Our  reading  is  undisturbed  by  the  ghost-creep  of 
childhood  and  the  adventuresome  daring  of  boarding- 
school.  Formerly  we  had  the  mere  tale  or  story;  now  we  feel 
in  a  small  degree  the  soul-expression  of  the  writer  —  an  in- 
definable, will-o'-the-wisp  sort  of  thing;  a  something  not 
always  caught,  but  that  strange  intangible  something  which 
lends  the  spark  of  immortality  to  the  master  creations. 
Literary  Monthly,  1909. 


APPENDIX 

EDITORS  OF  THE  WILLIAMS  LITERARY  MONTHLY 

1885-1910 
EDITORS  IN  CHIEF 

ADAMS,  ELBRIDGE  L.,  '87,  lawyer. 

ALLEN,  REV.  HERBERT  M.,  '88. 

BRITTON,  A.  DUDLEY,  'oo,  lawyer. 

BROWN,  ORTON  S.,  '92,  manufacturer. 

CONGER,  HENRY  R.,  '99,  lawyer. 

DUTTON,  GEORGE  B.,  '07,  instructor  in  English,  Williams  College. 

GOOD  WILLIE,  ARTHUR  L.,  '01,  banker. 

HOLLEY,  HORACE,  ex-'io. 

LOOMIS,  JOHN  PUTNAM,  'n. 

LOOMIS,  ROGER  SHERMAN,  '09,  Oxford  University. 

MYGATT,  GERALD,  '08,  journalist. 

PARK,  JULIAN,  '10,  Columbia  University. 

RICHARDS,  GEORGE  M.,  '04. 

SHERMAN,  STUART  PRATT,  '03,  instructor  in  English,  Univ.  of  Dl. 

SIMMONS,  THEODORE  H.,  '96,  journalist. 

SMITH,  HARRY  JAMES,  '02,  author. 

TRUMAN,  PERCIVAL  H.,  '98,  lawyer. 

EDITORS  AND  MANAGERS 

ABBOTT,  SAMUEL,  '87,  publisher. 

ADRIANCE,  VANDERPOEL,  M.  D.,  '90  (treasurer). 

ALDEN,  REV.  FREDERICK  A.,  '96. 

BANKS,  TALCOTT  M.,  '90. 

BARTLETT,  L.  HAYWARD,  '12. 

BATES,  MADISON  C,  '04,  teacher. 

BAXTER,  JOHN  T.,  '87. 

BEDFORD,  HENRY  E.,  JR.,  '08,  lawyer. 

217 


2x8  APPENDIX 

BIDWELL,  ORLANDO  C.,  '86,  lawyer. 

BIGELOW,  CHARLES  H.,  JR.,  '87,  lawyer. 

BISHOP,  REV.  EDWIN  C.,  '92. 

BLACKMER,  PERCY  W.,  '86,  manufacturer. 

BREWER,  D.  CHAUNCEY,  '86,  lawyer. 

BROTHERSTON,  REV.  BRUCE  W.,  '03. 

BRUSIE,  CHARLES  H.,  '87,  teacher. 

BUTLER,  DUDLEY,  'oo. 

BYARD,  JOHN  K.,  '08  (manager),  lawyer. 

CALLAN,  LESTER  L.,  '03  (manager),  lawyer. 

CAMPBELL,  JOHN  C.,  '92,  president  Piedmont  College. 

CHAPMAN,  WM.  L.,  '10  (manager). 

CLARK,  WILLIAM  MANSFIELD,  '07. 

CLARKE,  ARTHUR  F.,  '89  (treasurer),  lawyer. 

CLEVELAND,  CHARLES  D.,  '92,  lawyer. 

COLBY,  BAINBRIDGE,  '90,  lawyer. 

COONS,  ALBERT  S.,  '10. 

CRAIGHEAD,  JAMES  R.,  '95,  teacher. 

CRAVENS,  JAMES  H.,  '87,  lawyer. 

DATER,  PHILIP  H.,  '96,  civil  engineer. 

DIKE,  GEORGE  P.,  '97,  lawyer. 

DOWNER,  Louis  D.,  '95,  lawyer. 

DUNBAR,  PHILIP  R.,  'oo,  lawyer. 

EASTMAN,  MAX,  '05,  instructor  in  philosophy,  Columbia  Univ. 

EDSON,  HANFORD  W.,  '90,  teacher. 

EDWARDS,  WILLIAM  H.,  '91,  teacher. 

ERSKINE,  HAROLD  P.,  '02,  architect. 

ERSKINE,  RALPH  C.,  '04,  instructor  Hoosac  School. 

FITSCHEN,  REV.  JOHN  F.,  JR.,  '89. 

FORBES,  REGINALD  D.,  'n. 

GABRIEL,  GILBERT,  '12. 

GIBSON,  WILLARD  A.,  '08. 

GOODWIN,  FREDERICK  D.,  '95,  lawyer. 

GOODYEAR,  WILLIAM,  '87,  journalist. 

GRAVES,  FRANK  W.,  '88. 

HAIGHT,  LEONARD  T.,  '96  (manager). 

HARTT,  ROLLIN  L.,  '92,  journalist. 

HAYNES,  ROWLAND,  '02,  University  of  Chicago. 

HEPBURN,  CHARLES  F.  'oo,  lumber. 

HERRICK,  ISRAEL  A.,  '90,  lawyer. 

HITCHCOCK,  ALFRED  M.,  '90,  teacher. 


APPENDIX  219 

HOGAN,  BARNABY  M.,  '06  (manager). 

HOLMES,  EDWIN,  M.  D.,  '91. 

HOPKINS,  HENRY,  '03. 

HOWE,  KENNETH  J.,  '09  (manager). 

HOYT,  WILLARD  E.,  '92,  treasurer  Williams  College. 

HUNTINGTON,  JOHN  P.,  '94  (treasurer),  lawyer. 

HUYCK,  EDMUND  N.,  '88,  manufacturer. 

JAY,  JOHN  C.,  JR.,  '01. 

JEWETT,  REV.  FREEBORN  G.,  '88. 

KENNEDY,  HOWARD,  '89,  lawyer. 

KNICKERBOCKER,  EDMUND  C.,  '88  (treasurer). 

LEEDS,  STANTON  B.,  ex-'o8,  journalist. 

LEHMAN,  EDWIN  P.,  '10,  Harvard  Medical  School. 

LEHMAN,  HERBERT  H.,  '99. 

LEIGH,  GEORGE  L.,  '02. 

LEONARD,  EDGAR  C.,  '86  (treasurer),  manufacturer. 

LITTLE,  GEORGE  T.,  '02,  teacher. 

LIVINGSTON,  REV.  STEPHEN  T.,  '87. 

LOCKWOOD,  WILLIAM  A.,  '96,  lawyer. 

LOWE,  JOHN  ADAMS,  '06,  assistant  librarian  Williams  College. 

MCDONALD,  JAMES  R.,  '89,  publisher. 

MCLEAN,  CHARLES  F.,  '93,  lawyer. 

MARVIN,  DWIGHT  W.,  '01,  lawyer. 

MATHER,  FRANK  J.,  '89,  professor  of  art,  Princeton. 

MATTHEWS,  REV.  WILLIAM  H.,  '98. 

MENKEL,  ANTHONY  M.,  '01  (manager),  lawyer. 

MOORE,  REV.  OSCAR  F.,  '91. 

MORGAN,  HENRI  A.,  '04  (manager),  teacher. 

MORGAN,  SHEPARD  A.,  '06,  journalist. 

MORRILL,  OTIS  C.,  '07  (manager),  Columbia  University. 

MURRAY,  WILLIAM  H.,  '05  (manager). 

NASH,  JAMES  R.,  '89,  banker. 

NEWTON,  SILVANUS  B.,  M.  D.,  '91. 

NIMS,  HARRY  D.,  '98,  lawyer. 

NOTT,  CHARLES  C.,  '90,  lawyer. 

OAKMAN,  JOHN,  '99,  architect. 

OLIVER,  ARTHUR,  '93,  journalist. 

PARKHURST,  CHARLES  P.,  '98. 

PATTERSON,  STUART  F.,  '95,  lawyer. 

PERRY,  CHARLES  H.,  '86. 

PETTIT,  WILLIAM  S.,  '05. 


220  APPENDIX 

PRATT,  JAMES  B.,  '98,' professor  of  philosophy,  Williams  College. 
RICE,  RICHARD  A.,  JR.,  '99,  professor  of  English,  Univ.  of  Ind. 
RICHARDSON,  REV.  GEORGE  L.,  '88. 
RIGGS,  ROYAL  E.  T.,  '02,  lawyer. 
Ross,  JOSEPH  M.,  '01,  journalist. 
RUSSELL,  CLARENCE  J.,  '96,  teacher. 

SCHAUFFLER,  ROBERT  McE.,  M.  D.,  '93. 

SEW  ALL,  REV.  CHARLES  G.,  '93. 

SMITH,  REV.  EDWIN  RAY,  '87. 

SMITH,  ROY  BOARDMAN,  '05,  farmer. 

SPALDING,  HARRY  O.,  M.  D.,  '94. 

SPRING,  ROMNEY,  '94,  lawyer. 

STANLEY,  WILLIAM  H.,  '02. 

STARR,  Louis  MORRIS,  '93,  jeweler. 

STARRETT,  ROBERT  O.,  'n  (manager). 

SWEET,  REV.  ELNATHAN,  '95. 

THOMAS,  JOHN  J.,  M.  D.,  '86. 

TOLL,  HENRY  W.,  '09,  Harvard  Law  School. 

TOURTELLOT,  HENRY  B.,  '05,  merchant. 

TRYON,  JAMES  O.,  'oo,  lawyer. 

WESTERMANN,  BERNARD,  '08,  Standard  Oil  Co.,  Japan. 

WESTON,  KARL  E.,  '96,  professor  of  French,  Williams  College. 

WHEELER,  WILLARD  W.,  '03. 

WHITTLESEY,  CHARLES  W.,  '05. 

WILD,  HENRY  D.,  '88,  professor  of  Latin,  Williams  College. 

WILSON,  WILLIAM  R.  A.,  M.  D.,  '92. 

WlTHERELL,  WlLLIAM  R.,  '07,  JQUmaUst. 

WOOLSEY,  WILLIAM  W.,  'n. 
WRIGHT,  EDWIN  C.,  '89  (treasurer). 


INDEX  BY   AUTHORS 


Abbott,  S.,  '87, 

64 

Leeds,  S.  B.,  ex-  '08.               147, 

148 

Adams,  E.  L.,  '87, 

65 

Lehman,  E.  P.,  '10,                 166, 

167 

Anonymous,              14,  16, 

21,  45,  50 

"  Lichen," 

60 

Livingston,  S.  T.,  '87, 

2OI 

Banks.T.  M.,  '90, 

70,71 

Loomis,  R.  S.,  '09, 

149 

Benedict,  E.  C.,  '21, 

7 

Lowe,  J.  A.,  '06,  m 

197 

Benedict,  E.  G.,  '82, 

57 

Brady,  C.  H.,  '06, 

112 

Mabie,  H.  W.,  '67,  ' 

30 

Bryant,  W.  C.,  1813, 

4,6 

MacLean,  G.  E.,  '71, 

207 

Maxcy,  C.  L.,  '87, 

210 

Calhoun,  P.  C.,  '10, 

158 

Marvin,  D.  W.,  '01, 

82 

Carter,  Franklin,  '62, 

23,25 

Morgan,  S.  A.,  '06, 

104 

Chapin,  A.  C.,  '69, 

35 

Mygatt,  Gerald,  '08, 

123 

Conger,  H.  R.,  '99, 

81 

Corcoran,  J.  B.,  ex-'oi, 

78 

Oliver,  Arthur,  '93, 

72 

Button,  G.  B.,  '07, 

"3,  213 

Park,  Julian,  '10,                      175, 

205 

Parkhurst,  C.  P.,  '98, 

80 

Eastman,  Max,  '05, 

102,  103 

Edwards,  J.  O.  S.  E.,  '12, 

215 

Richardson,  G.  L.,  '88,               68 

,69 

Friedley,  Durr,  ex-'io, 

168 

"S.," 

53 

Sherman,  S.  P.,  '03, 

96 

Gabriel,  Gilbert,  '12, 

186 

Smith,  H.  J.,  '02, 

83 

Garfield,  J.  A.,  '56, 

12 

Spring,  L.  W.,  '62, 

198 

Gibson,  W.  A.,  '08,  136,  137, 

139,  140 

"Students  of  Williams  College," 

2 

Gladden,  W.,  '59, 

1,17 

Goodwin,  F.  D.,  '95 

73 

Tenney,  S.  G.,  '86,                      61,  62 

Griffin,  S.  B.,  '71, 

208 

"  Troubadour," 

54 

Grosvenor,  W.  M.,  '85, 

204 

Underwood,  H.  S.,  '83, 

59 

Hall,  C.  C.,  '72, 

48 

Holley,  Horace,  ex-'io,  150, 

151,  152, 

Westermann,Bernard,'o8,  142,  143, 

144 

* 

156,  157 

Weston,  K.  E.,  '96, 

75 

Wild,  H.  D.,  '88,                       66, 

202 

Ingalls,  J.  J.,  '55, 

8,  ii 

Windom,  W.  H.,  '11, 

I76 

Ketchum,  Arthur,  '98, 

76,  77 

"X.  Y.,"  see  Tenney,  S.  G 

221 


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